The Warlord and The Bard

Copyright 1996-2014. Eric Alan Westfall.

All rights reserved.

A Hearty Round of Cyber-Applause to:

Kerry Chin Chew Yee

Whose brilliant artistry captured the characters so very well.

You can see her portfolio gallery at:

http://dragonreineromanceart.daportfolio.com

Enny Kraft

As usual, she added her own magic touch to create the cover.

To get such magic yourself, contact her at:

http://ennykraft.weebly.com/

The Marvelous Betas

Kaje Harper (go buy all her books!) who pointed me in hopefully the right direction

Lily, who provided helpful feedback

Eloreen Moon, whose insight was, as usual, so very beneficial

Melissa, who stepped in at the last minute to help with the finishing touches,

and discovered inconsistent kissing to correct!

And remember, please: Any fault, dear readers, lies not in our betas, but in ourselves.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A HEARTY ROUND OF CYBER-APPLAUSE TO:

THE WARLORD AND THE BARD

AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD

AUTHOR’S BIO

OTHER BOOKS BY ERIC ALAN WESTFALL

3 Summer 24, 19103 After Seren

9676 House Andrae

Princess i’Sylvara’s Palace

Illoraen-the-City, Aldoran

DarkFire

It is very drunk out tonight.

It is very drunk inside the damned palace, too. And it’s about to get better and worse. More drunk is better. Just never drunk enough to lose control. The Goddess-damned monitor, the small shard of my self that broke off...that day...forever sits above my left shoulder, watching without emotion, analyzing, insulating. Trying to insulate. It always stops me at the edge of the precipice, never allowing me the freedom of that final step forward...and off.

It should.

Not here. Not now. Not with anyone around. I don’t need a battle damage assessment to understand the havoc and horror I would unleash on anyone within range, and it would be a very great range, if just once, I set free the Rage that is so very personal to me, it nearly lives and breathes on its own. If just once, I set the Voices of the Sword of Souls free, and let them Speak as they will. If just once, I...let go. I could destroy an army. I could level the land for miles in all directions.

I could destroy myself. But duty and honor forbid that.

There was a time when I believed that forever was the fifth word in that sentence.

Not any longer. Not for a long while.

I am so very tired.

So I wonder, more and more often...where. It has to be a place where I am utterly alone, no sentients within miles. Hells, no one within hundreds of miles. Not here, the Throne World is far too crowded. A trip to the Great Library, a search of the maps of the Gated worlds in the parts of the galaxy we have explored, and I can find that place. The only challenge, then, will be to get there unnoticed. That can be done with a good lead on pursuit, since the hue and cry over the missing prince, and the searching hordes who want the reward Father will probably offer, will be eventual, rather than immediate.

Escaping that way would almost be like the game of silence. Though not exactly alike, since that game was played out in the levels of the White Palace and deep into the heart of Tilarin Peak. This game will be played out over many Gates on many worlds and over all the miles between those Gates.

It will serve them right if the game they taught me, the game they forced on the young, crippled prince who had no Gifts, who was invisible to Power, who was invisible to them because of those lacks, sets me free.

I will have to be even better than that Winterdeath, just moments after midnight when I was officially twelve, when I used all the skills I had learned over the years in becoming adept at disappearing, in becoming the shadows of corners, of balustrades and bookcases, of doorways and drapes, of long halls and winding stairs; in becoming a soundless, voiceless presence slipping through the cracks and crevices of the Palace, unseen and unheard.

I went down and down that night, level after level, ghosting by guards who never knew until it was far too late, whispering through shadows, murmuring and rushing around the edges of pools of light. I danced my way through silence and night and into the tunnels that led into the mountain’s heart, into the Sword Room. Where I tested myself and nearly died.

I hadn’t wanted to die then; hadn’t even believed it was possible. I was dar Andrae. I was of the blood. But this time, this time here and now, if I want it enough I can succeed. With Power and Gifts now to serve the game, I can whisper-dance off world, and find my quiet place. A place where I can ensure that day will never be repeated; where I can ensure there will be no more attempts like the one earlier tonight. A place where I can override the monitor, take back the control I gave up, and let my Rage loose. Let it consume me. Where I can let...where I can make...the Sword end my soul and deny me rebirth.

Why not, damn You? Give me a reason. A valid reason, not just fucking duty and fucking honor.

There is, of course, no reply from Her. She has never bothered before; there is no reason She should now.

I lift the goblet and swallow some of whatever is in it. I drink to the possibility, however slight, that perhaps, just perhaps, that coldly logical part of my self might make a mistake, might even realize how logical I am being and help.

But that won’t...can’t...happen tonight. Fucking duty. Fucking honor. And all my fault.

Another swallow.

I should have just gone with the impulse, killed Niallan, and called in the White Guard. They are, after all, the innermost of all the circles of security which surround the House and Family in general and my parents and my sisters specifically. It is their job to deal with bodies—making or removing them. Or tossed him instead to Imperial Security for a force-link to find out what he knows. Both services are highly skilled at cleaning up...dirt. A splash of water, a scrub, a drying wipe, and it’s as if the dirt had never been there.

Instead, without even the excuse of being drunk, I decided otherwise. Decided to try devious instead of the old-fashioned direct destruction at which I so excel. Decided to devise a plan which puts success or failure for the most part in the hands of a devious, cunning, but ultimately not all that bright man, who was willing to commit treason to get what he wanted.

Goddess damn the man, and my temper.

I must continue to be seen, no matter my preferences at this moment. To be seen watching him while...apparently...trying not to be seen watching him.

A balcony is a good place for that.

Jerril

Get out of my head, you stupid refrain!

As if yelling at myself is going to get rid of it.

That is about as effective as my shipboard yelling at the storm over the Delassit Sea to Stop! Just Goddess damn it stop! I yelled that several times, mostly in my head. Only once was out loud, on the deck where I shouldn’t have been, soaked to the skin, looking up and staring and screaming at the black clouds I could barely see through the rain—at least I wasn’t stupidly shaking my fist at the sky—which caused a few of the crew and one of the officers to look at me rather strangely.

Then they all shrugged. I’ve seen that shrug before...often. Bards, it says. All of ‘em a bit weird in the head. What can you expect?

If the storm hadn’t been dumping its fury on us, I could have explained it logically, clearly. I was supposed to arrive in Illoraen-the-City through the Tanyth Gate on 3rd Summer 22, where, according to the crystal letter from Chief Steward Heran, I would be met by the House Guard and escorted to my quarters at the White Palace. I could relax the rest of the day and recover from travel. On the 23rd I was to meet my new employers, and the King-Emperor’s aunt. On the 24th I was...am...to make my first public appearance to entertain at her Summer Ball—a surprise for her guests. Except that the storm was so bad the ship was taking damage and would be delayed a day, perhaps more, getting into port, even if the seas quieted enough to make use of the Sea-Road possible. Which just toppled all of the dominos of delay.

What started to come out, though I snatched it back before it could escape, was, I’m late, I’m late, in getting to the Tanyth Gate, the Guard won’t wait, my fate’s not great, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.

The refrain, the ridiculous, spur-of-the-moment tune, and the fate’s-not-great part, didn’t make the tiring walk through the city and up the mountain to the White Palace any easier. It kept distracting me while I was trying to convince the first guard I saw that despite being bedraggled, travel-filthy, one bag, one guitar, one lute and a flute and all, I was indeed expected. I had to tell him who I was, but I was smart enough not to try the airs and graces that go with being the new High Bard for the Kingdom and Empire. The ones I’d practiced in front of a mirror. Grime and a lifted eyebrow rising in an arc of flame thanks to my hair color, just don’t go well together.

My condition now is at least improved. I have on the best of my finery, which I can see just in this foyer is not good enough for the circles in which I am about to move, or at least entertain. Fortunately, there is a clothing allowance that goes with the housing and the salary.

And the damned refrain won’t stop.

High Bard.

I turn from my contemplation of clothes, travel disasters, arrival disasters, late-late-late disasters, to see Chief Steward Heran. He is, of course, precisely as he appeared and sounded in his crystal letter: impeccably attired, and unquestionably the master of everything he surveyed in the White Palace. I had never before received (or sent) a letter using a memory crystal, primarily because I couldn’t afford to purchase the crystal and then use it for a one-way communication.

As for me, while I am not attired at my best, my appearance is at least acceptable, compared to what I looked like when I finally arrived four hours ago. I would have preferred giving him a voice-linked apology and explanation, but trying that kind of mind-link with a comparative stranger, without permission, especially one who might have significant impact on whether you keep your new job, would have been unforgivably rude. So I did as the Palace staff insisted, triggered the spell that started the memory crystal recording me in all my travel-stained, scruffy, un-gloriousness, willed my embarrassed blush away—Goddess damn, yet again, my fair skin—and offered my apologies with sincerity, minimal explanation, and no excuses. Perhaps some day I will be comfortable with the profligate use of memory crystals for something so mundane as an explanation of extreme tardiness in a new employee, but then, since the Imperial family controls the crystal mines, they can certainly afford it.

Chief Steward. Begin as you mean to go on. In the convoluted hierarchies of servants and non-government employees of the Imperial House I expect I rank somewhere near the top. I expect, too, that even if I do outrank the Chief Steward, he will nonetheless always outrank me. So, since I don’t play those games unless I am compelled to do so, I hold out my hand.

He only allows himself a blink of surprise, and then greets me as well—but with a forearm clasp normally reserved for someone you are close to, about whom you care. My turn to blink. He looks me over, head to toe, but with the air of a fond father or uncle who wants a favorite son or nephew to be presentable for an important occasion. Fortunately his glance doesn’t linger at my groin. It’s not my fault all of my smalls are in the bags that apparently have still not been located and forwarded through the Gate. In the absence of smalls...the right smalls...I tend to display prominently. Goddess forbid that I display really prominently tonight.

He waves a servitor over, who relieves me of guitar and lute and flute with care and competence, fortunately for the servitor, as disrespect to and damage of my instruments is the one sure thing to arouse my ire.

Your introduction to their Majesties will have to wait until after your performance, which is scheduled for seventeen, though that may be pushed back. I have set aside a room for you, if you wish some privacy, and a chance to rest and relax. Or you may simply enjoy yourself, and come to the main ballroom shortly before seventeen. You will be performing on the dance floor.

That image had been included in the original crystal letter arranging the travel and the first appearance. An unusual venue, but one I will have no problem with.

Thank you. I think I will...wander, and learn what I can about my new life.

An excellent idea. I turn toward the stairs leading up to the ballroom, but his voice stops me. High Bard, I think you should know that his Highness likes red— and I could swear there is an extraordinarily fast down-up glance, to go along with the twinkle in his eyes, "but despite what you may hear this evening, he really does not like red."

I do not gape at him. Bards, especially new-made High Bards who aren’t yet certain their position will last beyond the first song, do not gape. Even over a statement as confusing as the Warlord liking red, but not liking red—with some sort of pay-attention emphasis on the second one. The Chief Steward twinkles at me again, affords me a perfectly correct, head-plus-a-little-shoulder bow between professionals and equals, and then walks away. Leaving me to wander. And wonder.

DarkFire

My hand on the railing, looking down on the overflowing ballroom, I watch the dances.

Anything to distract myself. I ignore the dances with actual music, and instead focus on the dances of power and greed that happen every time the High Houses and Families gather. The dancers are particularly energetic tonight, almost frantic, moving in patterns far more complex than those in the Tale, smiling, always smiling, as they buy and sell, give and gather information to be used now, or later, and always for the greatest personal benefit.

Their avid senses suck up all the sights and sounds, storing mental records of the jewels and the brilliant colors, of the people who plot beneath the false laughter, of words said aloud, of expressions that say much or little or nothing at all. They store all they can possibly recall in the most intimate of detail, to crush the pretensions of those who weren’t invited. Crushing by linking mind to mind, here and now, would be preferable, of course, as it is such an immediate way to show the non-invited all they are missing, followed by later links to twist the knife-point home as this endless evening drags on and endlessly on. Unfortunately for their wishes, Aunt i’Sylvara’s mages, more than ably assisted by Father’s, have privacy-shielded the palace and the grounds so that no one inside or out of the shield can link with someone in either direction without going through Imperial Security.

Unfortunately, I am one of the exceptions built into the shield spell. So I got through, and got the additional invitations.

The frenzied feeders will just have to wait until the privacy shield falls, or the entertainment ends, whichever comes first, before they crush anyone, by link or spoken word, with a remembrance of the glories of the Princess i’Sylvara’s annual Summer Ball. Accompanied, of course, by a carefully casual reference to having been there.

Light flares brilliantly for a moment, pulling my eyes to it. The eyes of many others as well. The dazzle dies and all I can tell is roughly where it had been: down, to my right, on the far side of the crowded room. Idiot. As if Imperial Security would not notice the flash that always accompanies the use of a memory crystal. Stupid, stupid, stupid...woman. I can see her now since those closest to the fool have pushed back and put her at the center of a not-quite-circle of open space. Whether doing so is enough to successfully disassociate themselves depends on who responds.

Ah. Excellent. I cannot hear her words but her face and gestures tell me she is taking great offense at being accused by a mere guard of violating the memory crystal protocol for the evening. It is a simple one: Don’t. Don’t bring them; don’t use them. A protocol that was very visible in the invitation, and repeated for everyone on arrival. I wish I could be down there to enjoy the scene, but that would change the dynamics.

There is nothing mere about Colonel il’Alain dar Andrae, the head of Imperial Security, whom