Лорел Гамильтон - Strange Candy

“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.

Bardolfs 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 lef tthe room. All but two guards lef twith 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 Bardolfs 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 Bardolfs 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.”

It was a very unhealthy habit to disappoint a blood blade.

Sidra held the blade carefully and said, “Gannon, I would not ask this.”

“You did not ask. Do it. I have of ten been curious.”

She laid the blade tip against his arm, and it bit deep into muscle. The wizard winced but stared as the blade wiggled in the wound like a nursing calf.

Sidra pulled Leech free of the wound, and the sword said, “Ah, good, yumm.” Gannon ignored the sword and stared curiously at his wound as the edges knit together. Soon there was nothing but a whitish scar.

She sheathed the short sword and turned to Bardolf. “Are you willing to cure the bard now?”

Bardolf nodded weakly. “Anything you want. Just keep that sword away from me.”

Leech chuckled.

Gannon stood on one side of him and Sidra on the other. Then Gannon released the spell hold, and Bardolf nearly fell. With Gannon steadying him against the dizziness, they teleported to the inn.

The three appeared in front of Milon’s bed. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken and black-smudged. If he was breathing at all, Sidra could not tell it. The healer gasped.

Sidra’s heart felt like lead in her chest. “Are we too late?”

The healer shook her head. “There is time.”

Sidra pushed Bardolf forward against the bed. “Cure him or the blood blade will taste your soul.”

Bardolf half-fell to his knees beside the bed. He laid a hand on Milon’s forehead and over his heart. The curse-maker’s face went blank. It was the tranquility Sidra was accustomed to seeing on a healer’s face. She found it strange for a curse-doer.

Milon took a deep, shuddering breath, then his chest rose and fell. Bardolf stood up, looking relieved. Gannon forced him to stand back from the bed.

The healer touched the bard’s forehead. “The fever has broken; he sleeps. With a few days’ rest, he will be well.”

Sidra asked Gannon, “Can you take that one to the jail?”

“I think I can manage.” Gannon placed a hand on Bardolfs forehead and spoke one strange syllable.

The curse-maker’s eyes went blank, and he followed obediently as Gannon moved to the door. He turned back and asked, “What of our feline friend?”

“Do as you think best.”

Gannon smiled, a broad cheerful smile. “I will attend to it with pleasure.” He lef twith Bardolf following behind.

Sidra knelt by the bed and smoothed the sweat-darkened hair from Milon’s forehead. The healer moved a short distance away, giving them privacy. Sidra whispered to the bard, “I did not let you die.”

Leech was singing softly in its sheath. The words came up faint and hollow. “Lord Isham went a-riding, a-riding, a-riding. On his great bay stallion he went riding over his land. First he met a milkmaid, a milkmaid.”

Sidra asked, “Leech, have you ever tasted the blood of a province lord?”

The sword stopped in midsong and whispered, “Never, but I hear they’re quite tasty.”

“We will be visiting Lord Isham.”

Leech asked, “When?”