Stay here? Iren’s throat tightened. Just standing in this room was overpowering. He tried to speak, to counter Balear’s suggestion, but no words would come.
“We can’t stay here,” Hana said, her eyes on Iren. “This place could fall apart at any time. I don’t want to die because some old roofing timber crushes me.”
Iren thanked her silently, but Balear didn’t look pleased. “Where should we go then?” he asked. “It’s too late to head to another town, and there aren’t any inns around here. We could camp out again, but all those briars in the overgrown fields will make for an uncomfortable night.”
Hana grinned. “Why don’t we stay with your mom? You mentioned that she lives in Tropos Village. That’s barely a mile from here.”
Now it was Balear’s turn to look tight in the chest. “I . . . well, yes, I did say that, but we can’t just drop in on her uninvited.”
“Nonsense!” Hana laughed. “She’ll be happy to see her son. Now let’s get going!” Without waiting for the others, she left the room.
Balear pressed his fingers into his temple. “What did we get ourselves into with her?”
Iren smiled in spite of himself. “I’ve wondered that ever since we met her. She does make life interesting though.”
“Hurry up, Balear!” Hana called from outside. “I don’t know which house is your mom’s. You don’t want me to knock on every door in town, do you?”
Balear groaned. “Guess she isn’t giving me a choice.”
“Guess not,” Iren agreed. “Come on; we’d better catch up with her.”
Balear left, and Iren followed. As he exited the bedroom, he took a final glance back. The power of time was amazing. Even if he’d wanted to, he could never restore this place.
“Goodbye, Mom,” he whispered. “Goodbye, Dad. I don’t think I’ll ever come back again.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Even so, I’m glad I got to see our home.”
He turned to leave, and that was when he saw it. In the ruined pile of the bed, Iren caught the briefest glimpse of a color that didn’t belong—a rich brown. Everything else in the room bore the muted colors of dust and decay.
Iren reached down and peeled back a layer of shattered bed. A triangle of leather poked out, all but buried in the rotten wood and straw. Iren pulled it free, and when he held it up for inspection, he gasped.
It was a book, and thanks to its position hidden in the bed frame, it had escaped the ravages of time. Iren leafed through it, wondering what it could be about. He could read and write, so he expected to quickly determine the book’s contents.
As he paged through it, though, consternation replaced curiosity. The text wasn’t Lodian. In contrast to the Lodian alphabet’s rounded letters, the book’s characters had sharp lines. They also weren’t divided into words, at least not words Iren recognized. Except for a small group of markings at the top of each page, there simply seemed to be columns of symbols filling the book.
Rather, filling some of it. The first fifty or so pages had no writing whatsoever.
“Hey, Balear!” Iren called, but there was no answer. The others had gone on ahead of him. Iren left the house, mounted his horse, and galloped to catch up to them.
“You look better,” Balear said when Iren reached them. “Did you find something?”
“I did,” Iren said. He handed Balear the book.
“I can’t believe this is in such good shape,” Balear said as he opened it. “What kind of writing is this?”
Hana led her horse over to them and asked to see the book. She’d only had it a few seconds before she said, “It’s Maantec kanji, like the writing engraved on the Muryozaki.”
Iren grinned. This was the clue he’d come searching for! It was a Maantec book, and he had a Maantec right here who could tell him what it meant. He knew it must contain information about magic and how to heal his wounded body. “What does it say?” he asked.
Hana flipped to the book’s back page, opened her mouth, and then shut them both. She handed the book to Iren. “I won’t read this to you,” she said. “How would you know what I read would be truthful? I could make up anything I wanted, and you would have no way of knowing.”
Iren shrugged. “I trust you.”
She blushed, the red in her cheeks making her even more attractive. Iren had a brief flash of the black-haired woman in his dream. She really could be Hana.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Hana said. “Rather than read that book for you, I’ll teach you the Maantec language. That way, you can read what it says for yourself.”
Iren’s heart sunk. He’d found the clue he needed. He was certain of it. But instead of Hana simply telling him what was in it, now he had to learn a whole new language to find out. It was crazy.
“I will tell you one thing about that book, though,” Hana said.
The excitement came back, just a flicker. “What’s that?”
“See those symbols separated from the rest at the top of every page? They’re dates.”
Iren felt like he might pass out. His hands trembled as he realized what he’d found: his father’s diary.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tropos Village
When Iren, Balear, and Hana reached Tropos around sundown, Iren barely noticed they’d arrived. Had Balear not been there to confirm it, Iren wouldn’t have believed he had entered a village. A few wattle-and-daub houses with thatched roofs dotted the area, along with a well and a one-room church. That was it.
Dismounting, Iren and the others walked among the homes. An empty breath of wind passed through the village. No one was around, which Iren found strange. Though it was dusk, it was too early for everyone to have gone to bed. Now that he thought about it, they hadn’t seen any animals out to pasture either.
A chill ran up Iren’s spine. This scene felt eerily familiar. “It’s like Veliaf,” he whispered.
Balear shuddered. “Don’t say that,” he replied, but Iren knew the same worry must be going through the soldier’s mind. The last time they’d entered an unnaturally quiet village, it was because Quodivar bandits and Yokai had wiped out the town.
“This can’t be a Yokai attack,” Balear said. “Amroth defeated them last year in Haldessa.”
He was right of course, but it didn’t make Iren feel better. Humans could butcher a town just like Yokai could.
“This village is too small to be included in the civil war,” Hana put in. “Conquering it would be a waste of resources.”
“Then where is everyone?” Iren asked.
Hana shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say they’re hiding.”
“From what?”
“Isn’t it obvious? From us.”
Both Balear and Iren gave her shocked looks. “Why would they hide from us?” Balear asked.
“Because farmers aren’t stupid,” Hana said. “They know a war’s going on, and they know we’re not residents. They’re assuming we’re enemies.” She glanced around. “Balear, you said your mother lives here. Our best bet is to try her house.”
Balear squirmed. “Um, actually, I think there has to be somewhere else we can stay. I’m sure the church pastor would take pity on us.”
“What’s wrong?” Iren asked. “You don’t want to see your mother?”
The young man threw up both hands. “No, no it isn’t that! It’s just . . .”
Hana smirked. “Haven’t been home since becoming a traitor?”
Balear stared at the ground.
“They might not even know here,” Iren pointed out. “A place this small—”
“Still receives wanted notices,” Balear finished.
“So which house is your mom’s?” Hana asked brightly, ignoring Balear’s discomfort.
Balear gestured to one of the homes. “That one, but don’t just go over there—hey, wait!”
Hana was already bounding across the open space toward the building. She banged on the door. When no one answered, she shouted, “Mrs. Platarch! We’re here to see you! We brou
ght your son, Balear! He’s a friend of ours!”
Balear dropped his head and groaned.
The door opened a crack. “Balear?” a female voice asked. “Is it really you?”
Balear raised his hand and waved half-heartedly. The person in the doorway gasped. “Balear!”
The door flung open, and a middle-aged woman ran from the house. She wore a homespun dress covered with an apron, and her hair looked grayer than her appearance suggested it should be. Iren half-smiled. He wondered if Balear had caused it.
Balear’s mother wrapped her arms around her son and pulled him against her. “You’re home!” she cried. “When I saw that poster, I feared the worst. What has this country come to when it calls a sweet boy like you a traitor?” She smothered him with kisses, prompting a snort from Hana.
Iren looked away. Images of a rotting home in an unkempt field flooded his vision.
“Come on, Mom,” Balear said, “you’re embarrassing me in front of my friends!” His mother’s thick embrace muffled the words.
The woman let go of him. “Your friends?” She looked at Iren and Hana. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you both. I’m Arianna, but everyone calls me Ari.”
Iren and Hana introduced themselves, and then Ari asked, “What brings my boy home for a visit, and with guests? Oh, I’ll have to throw some more vegetables in the soup. Come on in everyone. I was about to have supper! How exciting!” She took off for the house at a jog.
Iren cocked an eyebrow. “Is your mom always this enthusiastic?”
“I haven’t been home in seven years,” Balear admitted, “not since I left to join the Castle Guard.”
“Oh,” Iren said, suddenly reserved. Even after seven years, Ari had recognized her son immediately. It didn’t matter that he never bothered to visit her, nor that his name was synonymous with treason. She’d run out and grabbed him like he was more precious than the finest diamond. Iren clenched a fist.
The trio followed Ari to her house, tied up their horses in the front yard, and set their swords inside by the door. Ari’s home had an identical floor plan to Iren’s parents’. The building had two rooms: an entryway that served as a combination of kitchen, dining, and living areas, and a single bedroom behind it.
Ari bustled over a pot above the fire, adding chopped onions and carrots to the soup. Simple though it was, Iren had never smelled a better scent.
“You’ve caught me unprepared,” Ari said. “The merchants don’t come like they used to, and, well, I can only do so much.”
“Here, Mom,” Balear said, “let me help.”
Ari smiled. “I’m quite all right, dear, but if you want something to do, you can cut up those potatoes.”
Uncomfortable yet again, Iren searched for a distraction. A painting hung on the far side of the room, and he walked over for a closer look.
The subject was a man about ten years older than Balear with windswept blonde hair. He stood on the deck of a ship and grinned like he’d just caught the biggest fish of his life.
Strapped to his back was a gigantic sword. If the proportions were true to life, the weapon would have been longer than the man was tall and weighed more than he could carry.
Exaggerated weapon aside, the painting’s realism was stunning. Iren examined it for a signature. When he saw the artist’s name in the bottom right, he read it three times to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake.
Hana noticed him staring at the painting and came over. She had the same reaction as Iren. “A Feidl?” she asked. “Here?”
Ari must have heard her, because the woman wiped her hands on her apron and said, “That’s my husband, Balio.”
“Shi. . .oot!” Balear cried. He let go of the knife and potato he’d been peeling and put his thumb in his mouth. Drops of blood spattered the counter.
“Honestly,” Ari said, “put a man in the kitchen and look what happens. I have some rags in the bedroom, dear. Top dresser drawer.”
While Balear went to wrap his wound, Ari cut up the remaining vegetables. Iren cringed. They were the last bits of food in the house.
Hana walked to Ari and offered to stir the soup. The woman smiled and handed over a ladle.
As Hana worked, without looking up, she asked, “How long ago did they come?”
Iren didn’t understand what Hana meant, but Ari must have. She stepped back and looked at the floor.
“It’s all right,” Hana said, “My parents died not long after the war started. Soldiers from Orcsthia came to our farm demanding food, and when my parents refused, well . . .”
Iren recalled the empty barn and farmhouse where they’d recovered after fleeing Orcsthia. Hana was another one, an orphan like him. In a perverse way, it almost made him happy.
“Men from Terkou came about a month ago,” Ari murmured. “We thought we were safe, too small to be noticed. But after King Angustion lost his army, all the towns were desperate for soldiers and supplies. Even a place like this can’t escape. Five or ten more men and a few more pounds of beef might make the difference between victory and defeat. At least, that was their opinion. I was lucky to escape with what I did.”
When Balear returned with his thumb wrapped, Ari dished up the soup. They all sat down for dinner. For a long time they ate in silence, until it became unbearable for Iren. “So,” he asked, “how does a woman in a tiny place like this get a Feidl portrait of her husband?”
Balear choked on his bite of potato, and Hana shot Iren a withering look. He flushed; apparently he’d made yet another social misstep. Growing up alone in a tower didn’t allow for training in the finer points of manners.
Fortunately, Ari took it in stride. “It was a gift,” she said. “Balio was a guard-for-hire in Kataile, though we could never afford to live there. Merchants paid him to protect their ships. Feidl was going to Tacumsah to paint a portrait of an island chieftain when pirates attacked. Balio fended them off all by himself. Feidl was so gracious he demanded that Balio let him paint his picture.”
Iren eyed the portrait over Balear’s shoulder. “So that painting is true to life?”
Ari laughed. “Feidl never exaggerated, even if it meant angering his patron by making an ugly subject look ugly.”
“But there’s no way it can be accurate,” Iren insisted. “No one could lift that huge sword.”
Balear stood. “I’m finished, Mom. If you don’t mind, I need to take a walk.” Without waiting for a reply, he stepped out the door and into the dark.
Ari smiled after her son. “Forgive Balear. I don’t think he ever got over his father’s death. He was such a small child then.” She shook her head, clearing away tears. “They say the man who bested Balio was a giant more than seven feet tall. He took Balio’s sword as his prize.”
Now it was Iren’s turn to gag on his soup. In a flash, he knew who had murdered Balear’s father, and he knew that Feidl had indeed been accurate when he’d painted that sword.
Leaping from his chair, Iren ran to the portrait. “Hey,” Hana called after him, “you could at least ask to be excused!”
Iren ignored her and reexamined the painting. The sword was in a harness on Balio’s back, so Iren could only see a little of it. The parts that stuck out, though, looked exactly as he remembered them.
Suddenly he leapt back as though from a poisonous snake. “Impossible!” he cried. From the table, the two women gave him odd glances.
“Mrs. Platarch, did you ever see Balio’s sword?” Iren asked.
Ari nodded. “He spent most of his time at sea, but he always carried it with him when he came home for visits. I thought it looked terribly heavy, but he was so strong that it never bothered him at all. He was Lodia’s finest.”
“Do you recall what the hilt looked like?”
“Well, now, let me think. It was wrapped in leather, and the leather had strange symbols burned into it. I asked Balio what they meant once, but he said they were meaningless decoration.”
Iren swore, oblivious to Ari’s and Hana’s s
tern looks when the word passed his lips. He ran to the door, grabbed the Muryozaki, and rushed outside.
Balear stood beside the village well, staring at the stars. He faced the door at the sound of it shutting. “Iren?” he asked. “I’d rather be alone at the—”
“I know where your father’s sword is.”
The former general rocked back on his heels. “What are you talking about? A pirate took that sword a long time ago. If it still exists, it’s off on some ship.”
“No,” Iren said, “it’s in Veliaf. Or at least it’s near there. Last year, Zuberi almost killed me with it.”
“Zuberi,” Balear said. His brow furrowed for a moment. “Oh, the Quodivar’s leader?”
Iren nodded. He would never forget that battle. The giant Tacumsahen had swung his massive sword like it was no heavier than a dirk. Each time he slashed, a gust of wind had accompanied the blow.
Back then, Iren had thought it was the man’s insane strength combining with the weapon’s size to push the air away from it. Now he thought differently.
Iren held up the Muryozaki and pointed to the concentric rings of Maantec kanji carved around the hilt. “Your mom said Feidl’s art is always realistic,” he said. “The sword in that painting had writing on the hilt. I couldn’t see it clearly, but what your mother said confirmed it for me. I think your father’s sword was a Ryokaiten.”
Balear turned ashen. “That can’t be,” he murmured. “That would mean that . . .”
“Yeah. Your father was a Dragon Knight.”
The soldier put his back to Iren. He gazed down into the well. For a long time he stood there in silence. Then he said, “The only memory I have of my father is when I was four. He came home for a surprise visit. I was excited to see him, but not long after he arrived, he and Mom got into a terrible fight. I was too young to remember the details, but I know I’ve never heard two people yell like that. Afterward, Dad stormed out of the village. He didn’t even spend the night; he just picked up his sword and gear and vanished into the dark. We never saw him again. We received word a year later that pirates had killed him.”
The Hearts of Dragons Page 7
