A Dragon for William

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Hopeless now, with news Lila’s carriage was on the final stretch, so Emon had dressed for the weather and gone out with a lantern to wait.

  Not alone, not in these times. His best guard, the formidable Dutton Omemee, stood with him, coming alert as a man led a saddled horse around the house, up the path from the stables. “Herer, m’lord,” he announced, relaxing.

  Emon’s other trusted confidant. These two had been with him in Mellynne, through that sordid business and its grim resolution, and it was hard to order the one to leave him now. But they couldn’t wait, not after what they’d learned about Essa’s baron there. If there was rot, best they know.

  Herer stopped, his horse rubbing its cheek against his arm as he bowed. “M’lord.” He’d a face easy to miss in a crowd, among other talents for a spy, and had dressed to suit the part of a none too wealthy merchant. “Shall I wait for the baroness?”

  “No, you’ve little light left as it is. If Lila has instructions for you,” Emon assured the other, “she’ll send one of her birds. Or I will.” This as the crow on his shoulder let out a pained croak.

  The men chuckled, then grew serious. Dutton put his hand over his heart. “However far we are apart, Keep Us Close,” he murmured, the others echoing the invocation.

  “No taverns,” Emon called out as Herer mounted, instead of “be safe” for there was no safety to be had.

  Except here, he thought with renewed hope. He turned to whisper to the bird, “Find our boys, Cheek. Bring them home.”

  With a loud caw, the crow was away, flying down the roadway after the man and horse. A second crow joined Cheek, Scatterwit no more patient than their master, and Emon laughed.

  Soon.

  * * *

  Three of Momma’s guards had joined them at Weken, the last town before the road split to either follow the Lilem downstream to Ayvo, or up into the rising mountains. Momma had taken them aside, with Tir Half-face, to have a conversation.

  The end result being that Tir had stood before Werfol and Semyn to say farewell. He’d taken off the mask that covered his missing nose and gaping mouth, for those were part of him and he trusted them as they trusted him. To everyone’s surprise it was Semyn who blubbered despite being too old for such a display in public, and Werfol who didn’t.

  He didn’t cry because he was mad. Mad Tir had someone else who needed him, being sworn to the service of Lady Mahavar, Jenn Nalynn’s Aunt Sybb, in Avyo. Mad because Momma, who wasted no resource, would be sending with Tir not only the precious bag of letters from Marrowdell but her own secret message, keeping him part of her business.

  Just because he understood politics didn’t make him happy about that.

  Tir knew and had ruffled his hair when no one was looking, then had bent to give Werfol words of his own. He’d said, “Your duty’s to help your brother.” Which made Werfol furious, because then who was helping him, until Tir added, “He’ll need you the most,” and he’d seen the truth of it.

  Wasn’t Momma busy with her plans? Wasn’t Poppa—who hadn’t been there and wouldn’t be again?

  As they’d driven away and apart, Werfol hadn’t been mad anymore. He’d hugged the satchel with Goosie inside and realized what he’d write in the notebook from Marrowdell. Someone to help him. To care about him.

  Someone to keep him safe.

  * * *

  At long last, a pair on horseback clattered up the roadway. Behind was the carriage, crows perched beside the lanterns and hanging on with wings outstretched. Enjoying themselves, his crows, and Emon couldn’t wait a moment longer, striding forward—

  Two massive shapes lunged from the shadows, heading for him, teeth agape. Emon stopped. Dutton stepped forward, raising his sword. Emon hurriedly pushed down his arm. “Don’t move.”

  The great beasts slowed, red-rimmed nostrils flared to take in their scent. They’d met these kruar in Mellynne and Emon hoped what little they remembered here, beyond the edge, included being allies, for a sword wouldn’t save them otherwise. Scourge, Bannan’s companion in war, had taught them all that.

  The kruar slowed, heads low in menace, lips rippling over unhorselike fangs as they continued to growl, as if deciding which of them to rip apart first.

  “Heart’s Blood,” Emon swore. “Lila!”

  The carriage came to a halt, crows launching into the air with triumphant caws, as if the arrival had been their doing.

  The door opened and there she was. A glance took in their perilous situation but instead of helping, Lila laughed. “Werfol.”

  Summoned, out popped their youngest son, clutching a satchel. Semyn crowded behind, gasping when he saw the kruar. While Emon wanted nothing more than to run to the boys and take them in his arms, he didn’t dare move, satisfying himself with a glare at his most unhelpful wife.

  Meanwhile Werfol, who could have walked under the belly of the larger kruar, simply came up to the nearer of the two and smacked it on the haunch. The head snaked around to stare at him. “Be nice,” his surprising son ordered. “There’ll be mice in the stable,” he went on to say. “That way.” He pointed.

  The head swung back around and Ancestors Witness was the thing purring? Emon couldn’t tell, because the kruar trotted off, followed by the pair of guards who’d dismounted, and the carriage, driven by another, clattering behind.

  Finally. Emon went to a knee and opened his arms, near bursting with joy.

  The boys exchanged glances, then bowed as one, deep and formal, before standing together to face him.

  A breeze tossed lonely leaves across the cobbles. In the distance, the stablehand shouted and horses neighed a protest. Sparing no thought to them, Emon rose to his feet and stiffly returned the bow. “Welcome home, our sons,” he heard himself say.

  “Esteemed Father,” Semyn said, distant and steady, using that tone they’d taught him, he and Lila, when dealing with uncertainties.

  “Poppa,” Werfol said, which would have been reassuring but suddenly his beautiful brown eyes began to glow like molten gold, black flecks floating like tiny islands, outdoing the lantern.

  Though a courier had brought Lila’s letter, though he’d known their son had magic? Was now magic—

  He hadn’t understood at all.

  Lila waited to one side, letting this play out, giving him, Emon realized all at once, time and means to make it right. He shot her a grateful look, then knelt once more. “Ancestors Blessed, I’m beholden to have you here with me. Semyn. Weed. I love you. I’ve missed you with all my heart. I know this isn’t where you expected to live, but it’s safe.” Werfol began to frown. “As safe as we can make it.” The frown went away and Emon took a deep breath, glimpsing a rocky future. “What matters to me more than anything else,” he declared, “is being together as a family. That’s what makes a home.”

  For a fraught moment, Semyn looked to his brother. They were closer in height than he remembered—closer in every way, and why not, having been through what they had.

  Gold faded to brown as Werfol looked back, then gave a tiny nod.

  Both boys launched themselves into Emon’s arms, knocking him backward but he managed to fall so no one was hurt, not that anything could hurt, not now.

  He’d a family again. Everything was back to normal.

  As if able to read his mind, he saw Lila shake her head. Once, no more, but Emon held the boys tighter in futile denial, knowing she was right.

  Because nothing was.

  Two

  Vorkoun, once the easternmost city of Rhoth and newly become again the most westerly of Ansnor, spilled down mountainsides to hem the banks of the mighty Lilem River. The river periodically spilled back and the people of Vorkoun, being as stubborn as they were short of level ground, responded over the centuries by building atop whatever had been damaged by flood.

  The result was a picturesque series of soaring riverfront t
owers, connected by massive arched bridges and overlooked by snow-tipped peaks, above a twisted maze of ever-dark streets and alleyways stinking of wet rot. Locals claimed to relish the smell; the wealthy fled in summer to estates up those mountains.

  Though the river shaped Vorkoun, its causeway kept it vital. The raised road, of well-fitted stone, followed the Lilem’s course to cut like a wavering knife through the city. Built in happier times, the causeway, when trade flowed freely between neighbors and Vorkoun was more market than bastion.

  Maintained in recent grimmer times with funds from the capital, Avyo, so Rhothan troops might reach the border at speed should the snarling and deadly little squabbles with Ansnor come to all-out war.

  Troops moved on it now. A small hand slapped a walnut down on the causeway, collapsing the tidy line of painted pegs. “I win!”

  “Careful, Weed! You’ll break it!”

  “Didn’t. I win, Semyn.” Hazel and brown eyes locked over what was, in minute detail, Vorkoun.

  “With this?” Semyn snatched the walnut from his younger brother and stared at it. Painted red eyes and a row of white jagged teeth stared back. He frowned. “What’s it supposed to be?”

  The word, dragon, trembled on Werfol Westietas’ lips. No use saying it. They weren’t to talk of Marrowdell or its wonders. No use saying the word to Semyn, anyway, who didn’t remember the truth, not the real one.

  Not like he and Momma did.

  Werfol swallowed dragon and held out his hand for the nut. “It’s a machine. A mechanical. A battle bear,” he said, warming to the improvisation. “Poppa’s building one in his workshop, you know. In secret.”

  Holding the nut above his head, Semyn’s frown deepened into anger. “For a truthseer, you lie a lot.”

  The truth. Seeing it shine in his brother’s face, shamed by it, Werfol threw himself across the model of Vorkoun—which cracked in half and maybe more pieces and was priceless and old and he’d be in trouble forever—and he didn’t care, blinded by rage and determined to wipe that look off Semyn’s face.

  * * *

  Disquieting, to see his beloved city broken in twain, towers shattered. Ancestors Faithful and Fair, Emon had to believe Vorkoun had a better chance surviving the Ansnans than the model his youngest son’s temper.

  A temper not yet done, by the tendency of small fingers to curl into fists. Semyn, equally aware, gave his brother a tiny shove. They bowed in charming unison, fingers brushing the carpet, saying as one: “We’re sorry, esteemed Father.”

  Perched like a crow on the sill of a distant window, their mother gave a snort. “Pretty manners won’t save you.”

  The model was ruined, its efficacy as a tool in their discussions of Vorkoun’s present and future gone, and he’d truly like to know how the boys had managed to remove its heavy glass and brass cover. Not, Emon thought with some impatience, what mattered here. Ignoring Lila, he crouched before their now-wary sons, doing his best to ignore the bruise blooming on Semyn’s cheek and the scrape above Werfol’s eye. “What started it this time?”

  No need to ask who.

  Semyn spoke at once. “Sir, I take full responsibility—ow!”

  Kick delivered, Werfol looked smug. “We weren’t fighting. We were practicing battle strategies, as our tutor Issan said we should at every opportunity, and I won.”

  Emon glanced meaningfully over the remnants of Vorkoun. “It’s not winning if you destroy what you’re fighting to protect.”

  Gold glimmered in those young eyes and smug turned to sullen as the little truthseer read his face. Then smug returned. “If it was the real city, Poppa, and not a toy, it wouldn’t have broken and I would have won.”

  “Weed!” Semyn hissed under his breath.

  Too late. Emon felt the cool brush of fingertips across the back of his neck and stood, ceding the floor, and troublemakers, to their mother.

  He wished her luck.

  * * *

  Wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right. Why hadn’t Momma made them count backward instead of this? Werfol hunched in a ball, cheek pressed to the carpet, staring over the field of city debris. “We can’t fix it.” He poked a bit of bridge, making it rock.

  “Ancestors Stupid and Slow.” Semyn swore when they were alone, being older and thinking himself important. “Of course we can’t.” He sat down beside Werfol, pulling a box in reach. “Momma told us to save what we can.”

  That being what followed a battle, she’d said too.

  Werfol poked harder, and the bridge bit snapped.

  “What’s wrong with you, Weed?”

  What wasn’t wrong. With everything. But the question held honest concern so he rolled his head to scowl up at his brother. “We haven’t seen anyone. We haven’t been out since we got home. Not that we’ve even gone home.” The riverside tower with the Westietas’ apartment had rolled under a chair. “Ordo gave it away.”

  “Because it was south of the Lilem,” Semyn explained patiently. “You know that. Besides, you like it here better. We all do.”

  “Yes,” Werfol admitted, the Westietas apartment having been too full of old and breakable things for rambunctious play and few opportunities to run around outside in the heart of the city. Here, he thought glumly, wasn’t better. Not any more. “We still can’t go anywhere. Not even to see our friends.” Not that they had any, not here.

  “We don’t need anyone else.”

  Semyn was right. They’d been whisked away from the estate to spend time with Uncle Bannan while Momma rescued Poppa, but always, always together. Been safe because they were together. Were safe now.

  Semyn rescued the bits of bridge and put them gently in the box, chewing his lower lip with a thoughtful sucking sound, the way he did when they were alone and he didn’t have to be the heir and perfect. Then, firmly, he said what spoiled Werfol’s good feeling. “Besides, you know it’s not safe—”

  “It’s safe for Momma and Poppa and Dutton and Herer and—well, it’s always safe for Momma,” Werfol corrected proudly. “Why isn’t it for us?”

  Eyes rolled. “Someone bad tried to take us. Remember? That’s why Tir took us to the village in the north, to Uncle Bannan.”

  He didn’t like remembering that part. The rest, though? “Tir took us to Marrowdell,” Werfol said, tasting the name.

  “Yes, there. Jonn and Aucoin died.”

  “And Cook.” Who’d been here, not there, and Cook hadn’t, Werfol thought with a child’s bloodthirsty logic, been sick or old, meaning a comeuppance.

  “And Cook,” Semyn agreed. “Who spied for the bad man.”

  Here was news. Werfol sat up. “Is that why Cook died? Why staff are gone?” Not that he missed Issan, their former tutor being fussy and he smelled odd, but having to make their own beds was a nuisance when they didn’t know how. Nor, come to think of it, would he miss the strange silent Ansnans who’d arrived at the apartment to work, taking the place of staff he’d known all his life. Momma had said they were part of the treaty and they worked hard, but he’d never liked being near them. They’d stop and stare whenever he entered a room, as if wanting him out of it—Werfol blinked hopefully. “Were they all spies? Was Issan?”

  Semyn kept rescuing pieces, his face averted. “I don’t think Momma knows. Not yet.”

  “I could find out.” And he could, couldn’t he. “I could see if they lied.”

  “It hurts you,” Semyn countered sensibly. “It’s probably why Momma sent almost everyone away. Uncle Bannan said you aren’t old enough.”

  Being a truthseer did hurt, Werfol thought. A lot. When strangers lied to him, it made his skin itch and prickle. When someone he trusted lied, it burned inside and he got mad, really mad, because that was ever so much better than feeling sick to his stomach or bursting into tears. Which meant Uncle Bannan, who was a truthseer too and had used his gift while a soldier, must be the bravest pers
on in the world after Momma and Poppa.

  Well, he could be brave too. Perhaps there was a trick to it. “I just need to know how.” Werfol picked up a tower and put it in the box. “If I’d stayed in Marrowdell, uncle would have taught me.” Squirming under a chair, he rescued another bridge, mostly intact, and offered it. “If we’d both stayed for the winter, we could have stood on ice with Cheffy.”

  “And they gave us shoes to walk on snow,” Semyn began eagerly, then looked crestfallen. “I don’t think we’ll be going up the mountain to find some this winter.” Elbows on his knees, he rested his chin in his hands. “Bad enough we missed the Midwinter Beholding.”

  “We didn’t. We celebrated in Marrowdell,” Werfol reminded him. “Remember?” And the very best part of that night had been playing spot-the-dragon with Wisp.

  Semyn sighed. “Of course I do. They were all very kind to us, Weed, but we weren’t with Poppa or our family here. It wasn’t the same.”

  “It was better.” And before he could stop himself, or remember why he must, Werfol went on, “Wisp played with us! He’d fly up to the rafters and be invisible—except to me and Uncle Bannan and Jenn, and maybe Wainn and the toads—and when I spotted him, he’d fly down and let you and everyone see him too.”

  Semyn sat up, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why you have to keep making up these stories. The people of Marrowdell were good to us and generous. There’s no need to—to embellish.”

  That being Semyn’s fancy new word, the one he thought was kinder than saying “lie,” but stung just as much.

  “I hate it here! I hate you!” Werfol dumped the box so what they’d saved from battle bounced and broke, then ran from the room.

  * * *

  “The lad’s gone to the mews, m’lord.”