The Bard and the Prince - 1. Chapter 1

His labored breathing sounded loud in the misty night air, louder than his bare feet over the snapping twigs and scree. Louder still were the thundering hooves than urged his tired, sore legs to work, commanded his laboring lungs to draw in the life sustaining air he so desperately needed. He never once looked back over his shoulder. He knew exactly who was behind him and they were going to use the exact same method they had used on countless others. Chase until you drop. Like a cat stalks their prey, so too did these men. And they excelled at what they did, these Cat Chasers.

It was well past the height of the night and he had been running for hours. Through bramble and thorn covered brush, over fallen logs and moss covered rocks he had run. He had tripped several times, stumbling into a sprawl and wanting to just let them trample him to death, yet the Chasers had reined in and waited for him to get up so they could resume their game. How he had longed to lay there, but they waited, their horses resting even as he did. He had gotten to his feet and ran on still East. Always East.

Behind him he could still hear them. His feet stung fiercely and he had so many bleeding wounds that he felt light headed. Still he ran. He would be safe in the East. Something in his fogging brain said that east was the way to go, that east was the only place he would escape these Chasers. Yet he was exhausted and he could barely see even though the three full moons lit the forest in a purplish glow.

His strength was nearly gone when he heard the sound he had been praying to get to. He became aware of it only when he was a hundred yards away. By this time the Chasers knew where their prey was bound and he was so close to his goal that they had to step up their pursuit or lose him. The sound of running water filled his ears and gave him new energy, new hope of salvation and safety. Yet the hoof beats behind him came nearer. So near that he felt the hot breath of a horse tickle his ear and make him flinch. A good thing too because the air where his head had been whistled from the passing of a great cudgel. Fifty yards he had until he was free. Fifty yards until he passed over the boundary and into the neighboring kingdom where the Chasers could not follow.

He slipped on the moss slick stones and tumbled. It was to his benefit too because the Chasers had turned to hunters. An arrow that would have pierced his heart missed. It grazed his shoulder as he fell face first into the water. Thinking himself free he stood...and all went dark. He had been so close.

* * *

He sat in thought. When he had risen the previous morning with ideas of hunting on his mind for that night he had not envisioned that he would find what he did. He was ready for deer that frequented the western woods and had bird arrows too just in case he found no deer. His father had taught him to always be prepared. “My son, you will need to be prepared for anything that life throws at you. Always plan ahead.”

He had planned ahead for this trip too. This time he had actually told his brother where he planned to go. “This be a first, my brother. Where comes this wisdom from?” his brother had joked.

“From countless time you have had to send out parties to search for me.” He had a habit of staying out too late for their father's taste. So he had come with his horse and he had even packed an extra set of clothes because he always seemed to run into foul weather.

But there he sat in the early morning and wondered what he had gotten himself into this time. Father was used to his independence and in many ways fostered it. Being the youngest of five brothers was not a good place to be if you wanted any sort of inheritance. So he was given his head in many endeavors and had been known to act on his instincts rather than with logic, though he could tell if something was bad from the first. He had rescued stray dogs, help birth a calf on a farm of people he had only met minutes before, had saved a young maiden from highwaymen all because he had been told to do what was right and if it seemed gray to do what he thought best.

He doubted this was what his father would consider best although he would praise him for his care. Prodding the fire back to life, he fed it more wood and shifted the baking trout. The sun was on the rise and he needed to be on his way back home, yet he could not just leave. That was a very bad idea, he felt it in his bones. He needed to be here now and see this through else he would dwell on it for days if not fortnights. The first rays of sun slanted down and lit up the forest and he got his first real look at his problem.

First impressions were always what set the standard of anything. He had been hunting and heard hoof beats. Wondering if it was his father he had hidden. Then he realized it came from the wrong side of the river. He had dismissed the sound as it went away from him, but something told him to watch. He had watched the river intently and he almost missed it. A person was floating face up in the water and by the huge gash on his forehead he was dead. Remorse for the loss of life, even of someone he did not know, made him shut his eyes. Yet when the body stuck a submerged rock the body moaned. Alive! Without thinking he had leaped into the water and pulled the man out.

He wore very plain clothes of homespun wool that had seen better days. Torn to shreds and countless lacerations covered the man from head to toe. Even his toes were so cut that it must have been torture to walk this far. The man was skinny from being underfed but was not skeletal. Instead he was muscled lightly and wiry. Immediately the rescuer tore off his own over shirt and cut it into strips that he used to bandage the worst wounds, like the head wound and the deep perfect cut on his shoulder that almost seemed to turn. An arrow wound, one he had known was coming else he would not have turned or ducked. That meant this man was hunted, bludgeoned, and thrown in the river to die. What had he done, or been accused of, to deserve such a fate? Stilling the questions in his mind he carefully moved the man to a more sheltered location where he had stashed his horse. Quickly and efficiently he set up his camp, all thoughts of hunting gone now. In moments he had a fire going, a pallet made up for the man who had weighed far more than he looked, and put the trout out to cook.

The horse, a stunning dapple gray that slid almost to a blue, shied away at the unaccustomed smell of human blood but she was too intrigued to stay away. “You wondering what he's here for, aren't you Mist?” In answer to his question, she of course said nothing. She did toss her head as if to agree. Mist was exceptionally bright for a horse and she could discern the difference in a questioning tone and a statement. “Well, he's hurt and I need to know why.” His need to know had always gotten him trouble. It was his biggest strength, his drive a thirst for knowledge. He was not the biggest of his brothers, he stood only five feet ten inches tall and weighed in at one hundred eighty pounds, he was not the most cunning, but he could find patterns in anything and exploit what he needed. He was not the most handsome, the smartest, the wisest, all of these actually going to the one brother who would not even acknowledge the first, sometimes used the second and relied on the last way too often.

So he had to find his niche in life and that was to learn everything he could. He could cook as good as any housewife, sew almost as good, track a hawk on the wing through a rainstorm, scout terrain and accurately map it days later. He could compose sonnets, shoot a bow, play the lute, speak four languages fluently. His education was mostly self taught and it impressed two of his four brothers and gave him a special place in his father's household and heart. He was the diplomat of the family.

This man was tall, he could tell. He topped him by at least four inches and outweighed him by only a few pounds. Their was a softness to his face hidden by the dirt and muck that gave him a youthful appearance despite his obvious maturity. A few scars crossed his body, normal for anyone who grew up in the peasant class. Long fingered hands looked clever and held few callouses that should be there if he worked in the sun and in the fields. His skin tone was too pale except for his face, arms from hand to elbow and part of his chest where his simple shirt had not covered him. This told him that this man was no field worker. Maybe a scribe, but their were no ink stains on his hands. He could not be a soldier, there were not enough callouses on his hands. His shoulders were broad and the muscles atop them were lean but solid. Whatever he did had him holding up objects all day long. Shaking his head he turned back to his fire. He was tired and in need of sleep, but he could not sleep in case the man woke up and tried to sneak away.

* * *

Something smelled good and it broke through his unconscious stupor and he woke with a jerk. The sun was just on the rise and he lay on soft blankets and under a man's cloak made of fine wool. He could feel every inch of his body and all of it hurt, the bottoms of his feet the worst. Memories came flooding back in. The Chasers, his flight to freedom, the blow to his head. Where was he now? Safe was relative, but he knew that the Chasers had not caught him so he was safe for now. So where was he? He shifted only slightly and cracked open an eye and looked around. He could see a beautiful horse was watching him intently. She was bred well and smart, no harness tied her to a tree to keep her. That spoke of loyalty to her rider which meant kindness on the rider's part.

Swinging his gaze around he saw where the smell was coming from. A fresh caught fish was baking on the rocks around a well made fire. A young man squatted beside it and by the tilt of his head he had been looking at him only moments before. The lad had shoulder length honey blond hair with near black strands that made the contrast that much more startling. Compact and solidly built, he wore the clothes of the son of some minor land owner or merchant, his wool finely cut but not embroidered or tasseled. He wore soft riding boots that one would wear when going hunting.

He looked closer at his face, trying to pin an age to him. Strong jaw and neck, somewhat upturned nose, small ears...no signs of wrinkles or scars that came with age and activity. He looked no older than fifteen but he could be as old as twenty if he had led an easy life. He had a healthy glowing tan to his skin and he looked like he spent many hours out of doors. He would be stunningly handsome once he reached his majority. Whoever this little lordling was he had saved his life, bound his wounds. The horse nickered and the lad looked up at her. There was a hint of a beard, but it was pale hair, and it raised that minimum to seventeen and maximum to twenty-five. “What is it?” the lad asked the horse. His voice was soft as satin and a husky tenor. It was accented with the tongue of Lycenia, the eastern kingdom he had been trying to reach. It also said volumes about his breeding. Land owner. No merchant could speak that well born. Then he looked directly at him. The injured man felt something strange as he looked into those clear, dark blue eyes that were speckled with flecks of green. He knew this meeting was fated, but why he could not tell. They just stared at each other for a few moments, blue eyes never leaving his amber gold, each weighing the other. Finally the lad spoke. “How are you?”

He noted the lad stayed where he was so as not to frighten him. Diplomatic of him. “I am a mess.” The lad's jaw dropped. It was a standard reaction whenever he spoke. Everyone marveled at his voice, smooth as the finest silk and caressing like a lover, it was deep but did not rumble or sound gravelly. It was what had attracted the attention of many a lady in his years. “I must thank you for pulling me from the river.”

Blinking and shaking his head to clear away the disbelief he replied, “You are welcome, but I hope anyone would have done the same. My name is Lexi, and that is Mist.” He gestured to the horse who tossed her head.

“My name is Robin. Well met, good sir and fair mare. I would rise and bow, but I don't think I would stay upright.”

“Bard,” Lexi said. “I was trying to figure out what you had done to have the eyes of the Chasers on you.” The startled look on Robin's face made him want to take that back. “Yes, we've heard of them here, and they are the only ones adept enough to track someone at night. I will not ask what you did, but I can imagine.”

“You are more perceptive than half the land owners I have seen.” That got a grin, one that would stop the hearts and feet of every woman who saw it. “I'm a minstrel, actually. As to what I did, it was simple. I stole a loaf of bread to eat.”

“That's it?” Robin nodded. “That is punishable by this? What twisted thing rules Rendol these days?” This last part Lexi said almost to himself.

“I've heard that question too many times in the last few years. Something, or someone, has changed the King. It was subtle at first. New laws that made perfect sense were followed by ones that reinforced these old ones. It all went by the populace without a murmur until these last months when someone had the brains to look at all the change and wonder why no one saw it before.”

“Was this someone you?”

“No, but he was someone I admired greatly.” Silence fell then. It was a silence that was needed to gather thoughts, put away painful memories, and put back on the mask of composure.

“Are you hungry?” asked Lexi. He knew he was asking too many questions about subjects he really had no business knowing.

“I would have leaped upon that fish were it not for a few things. One, it is just not done,” that got a chuckle out of him, “two, I did not know if that was your fish and since you did save my life I couldn't in all honesty steal from you, and thirdly I doubt I could walk any great distance.”

“I doubt you could walk at all. Your feet are as cut up as diced onions. Here.” Lexi brought the fish to him along with a silver fork. “Careful, it's hot.” Robin did not thank him, but then Lexi had not expected him to do so. He took up his own fish and ate with the same zeal.

Once they were done Lexi said, “I need to look at your wounds.”

“I doubt they have changed all that much.” He smiled to let him know it was a joke and again Lexi's jaw dropped. The joking manner and that smile were mesmerizing. Robin was, under all that dirt, a very handsome man, almost beautiful. Full lips, high cheek bones, perfectly arcing brows. A delicate nose looked almost pixieish between his almost wide spaced eyes. Robin was so used to this reaction that he ignored it.

To cover up his blush at his rudeness Lexi pulled back the cloak and first look at Robin's feet. They looked like minced beef but they were free of dirt and sand and the scabs were already forming. “I would not walk for any distance were I you. I could try something my priestly brother taught me.”

“Try away, Lexi, I doubt I will be worse off.”

Lexi placed his hands over the mangled feet and looked inside himself for the spot he knew was there. It had always been there, but it was so small he almost had no spot. It was a center of power that ran in his bloodline in one form or another. Some fools called them miracles, some heathen rituals, but whatever one called it, it was magic. Lexi could cast some spells but again he was no expert like his priestly or wizardly brother, yet he could cast from both aspects of magic, very rare. Lexi began chanting inaudibly and his hands took on a strange blue glow. When he reached the end then energy fell away from his hands and into the flesh of the feet. The wounds were healing right before their eyes, but Lexi was nowhere near strong enough to fully heal them. Still, they looked as if he had gotten hurt a month ago instead of hours. “That's all I can do.”

“It's more than I expected, believe me.”

“You're not...put off by magic?”

“Heavens no. I've seen the good and bad of magic and I know healing spells when I feel them. They itch like crazy.”

“Good, then I cast the right spell.” This got an arching brow. “I'm not a priest. I learned just enough to get back home when I'm hurt. I can't even cast some spells because I just don't know the words. Had those been infected my spell would not have worked at all.”

“Then I'm glad you are a better field medic than healer. Here is the thousand gold question. What now?” Not a scale remained of the fish on either man's plate.

“Well, you could probably make it to Hamlet-on-the-Lake by sundown, but that would be dangerous with your healing feet. Or you could come home with me until you can get healed more and get back on your feet as it were.”

Robin sat in thought. “You do not own the land. What would your Father say?”

“He would probably say 'again, Lexi' and then shake his head fondly. I'm the youngest of five. He's mostly used to me bring home company and strays. He's even employed some of them.”

“Does he need a minstrel? By the look on your face no. Still, I thank you for your help.” Lexi finished his examination of the wounds and then began breaking to camp. “Where are my clothes?” He saw the pile of rags. “Oh. Well, it looks usable.”

“No. You can wear something of mine. It'll be short in the sleeve and leg, but we're of a size in the chest and shoulders.” And he should know. He had looked at every inch of Robin's body for injury and he was an excellent judge for tailoring.

“Who are you?” This was a bit too unreal for him. Was this another sick plot of the Chasers? Some new hell they concocted to give him hope and then they would destroy it again?

“Someone who does not like to see suffering. If I had the fortitude I would approach the king and tell him he's being an ass on some subjects and tell him how it should be run because he only hurts his people his way.”

Robin laughed. “I believe you would too. Now help me up so I can get dressed and we can go to this land of yours.” Lexi took his hands and together he was upright. Lexi looked up and up into the face of Robin.

“Gods above you're tall.” He towered over him by at least a half a foot if not more.

“I suppose so. Clothes? I do not have much modesty, but I am naked here with only a cloak for cover.” Soon he was dressed in clothes than were finer than anything he had ever owned. “This is like one of my tales.” His hands were touching the soft fabric, tracing the fine hem.

“How so?”

“Rescued by the dashing young lordling from a hideous fate, plied with fine garments as we journeyed to his far off lands where I would bask in a life of luxury until the evil magician who had plans to over throw the King tried to kill me for seeing through his plot.”

“The 'Mara Cycle' is pure drivel,” said Lexi. He had never been fond of most of the romance tales, not for some time.

“True, but it has it's purpose.”

“And that is?” Lexi asked curiously. Learning what a true musician thought about music would be nice as his father's bard was not one of Lexi's favorite people.

“One to teach everyone that wizards are not all powerful and that every harm they do with magic will bite them in the end. Also to make every lady in the area want to be your Mara. The ladies love a dashing man and romance.”

“How droll,” he said affecting a bored air. Their eyes met and they laughed. Lexi whistled and Mist came trotting back from her grazing. “Mist, this is Robin. Do not eat him. Give her your hand.”

But Robin was already doing just that. Mist was an excellent judge of character and she would attack anyone who threatened Lexi. The fact that she was nuzzling under Robin's hand was a good sign that this minstrel was a good person to know. “You are a lovely creature, Mist.” At that she tossed her head. “Glad you agree, you vain creature.” He turned to Lexi looking at him oddly. “What?”

“She has never taken to anyone so fast. She's never even answered anyone but me.”

“There is magic in a sincere compliment, Lexi. Even lady horses love hearing they are beautiful.” The way he looked at the horse made Lexi think that this minstrel had taken refuge in more than one stable on more than one occasion. He was too familiar with the ways of equines to be a duffer.

“Since I don't have to worry about her eating you mount up.”

“But she is your horse, what will you ride?”

“I'll be riding behind you with the reins.”

“No offense, Lexi, but your arms are too short. If you insist on riding double, I'll sit behind you.” Lexi shrugged as he saddled Mist and then mounted effortlessly with a graceful, practiced leap. Robin seemed to Lexi to just step over her back with his long legs. He wrapped one arm around the lordling's waist and slumped in the saddle.

“Are you okay?” Lexi asked, but Robin was already asleep. “Go easy, Mist, he's been through a lot.” Stepping carefully out, she made her way home with no guidance from Lexi. She knew the way. Besides, he was too distracted by the man whose arm was around his waist. He hoped there would be time to get to know him before he left. He had felt an instant connection with the man. Kindred spirits. He could not fathom his reaction to him because he had never felt this close to anyone ever let alone so soon after meeting him. Their political views were pretty much identical and Lexi did not doubt he would steal a loaf of bread were he hungry enough. Still, why was he so...entranced by this man?