Which was something his guard should do, so Werfol relaxed. Feeling him ease, JoJo clucked back. “What is it?” he asked, putting the bird behind him.
“The baroness requests you question the new tutor.”
“Me?” Something in Dutton’s tone made Werfol uneasy. “Why?”
“I believe your mother wants you to use your gift, Werfol.”
He should have been pleased. Was pleased. No, he wasn’t, not at all. He was afraid. Afraid of meeting an Ansnan, if Setac was one. Afraid of the very bad person. Afraid, all at once, of both. “Dutton, what if Setac was sent by Lurgan? What if he means me harm?”
“I’ll be with you.”
Which helped, but hadn’t Semyn warned his gift had to stay a secret? “If Setac sees I’m a truthseer, what’s to stop him telling others?”
“His head will roll in the fireplace.”
Werfol wrinkled his nose. “You’re making fun of me.”
The guard took a step inside to stand where the sun found his face, revealing his expression to be serious indeed. “Ancestors Tried and True, I do not, Werfol. Your mother has some reason to doubt this man and relies on you to find the truth. If he can’t be trusted—” A hand dropped casually to sword hilt.
“Oh.” He’d imagined being a hero, using his gift like Uncle Bannan to sort the bad from the good. This wasn’t like that. This was, quite possibly, about a man’s life.
Though disturbed, Werfol remembered to close the mews’ door before following Dutton back to the house. Forgetting about the house toad, he thought suddenly of his brother, alone with someone Momma didn’t trust. Alone because he’d let him be alone. “Dutton! Is Semyn all right?”
“Your brother invited Master Setac to visit the kitchen for tea and biscuits, as he’d missed lunch.”
Someone from the household was always in the kitchen. “That was smart.”
“Yes.”
“Semyn should have a guard of his own, shouldn’t he?”
“The heir has the household guard for protection.”
Seen from behind, Dutton moved with a light, easy step. The sort of step Momma said they were to watch for, because such a person knew where their feet were at all times and wouldn’t be easy to defeat.
“But you’re the best,” Werfol declared with satisfaction. “Aren’t you?”
Dutton gave an affirmative grunt.
The boy’s grin returned. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Semyn.”
Unless his brother made him mad again.
* * *
They’d never done this before. Never spied on their own children, whatever bizarre else Lila had insisted be part of the boys’ upbringing, and Emon wanted for once to be angry with his wife. To protest and stop this—this test of Werfol.
Fingers pressed his. She was no happier, that said, easing his mind not at all.
The library wall held tall bookcases, separated by a mirror midway designed to catch the light from the windows and send it over the reading chairs. From this side of the wall, their bedroom, the back of the mirror was hidden behind a wooden panel, like the rest.
Until you pressed the mechanism and that panel moved aside to reveal a window of another sort. From Channen’s Shadow District, the library’s mirror, painted on one side with a very thin coating of costly Silver Tears and bespelled. Viewed from behind, as now, it not only gave full sight of the library, but transmitted sound from it so clearly, those in the other room might have been in this one.
Dutton stood by the door to the hall, his stance that of a senior guard assigned a tedious and needless duty. His gaze had touched the mirror, once and briefly, eyes somber. Promise made.
Werfol stood as well, near the chairs and facing the door. He’d scrubbed the dust from his face and hands but not changed. Regrettable bits of hay stuck to his hair and pants, perhaps why he stood.
Emon thought it more likely their son preferred to wait on his feet.
Despite a spurt of growth this past year, Weed looked too small for what they asked of him. Was too young and vulnerable, and Emon took a breath to stop this.
Too late. The door opened. Semyn walked in, followed by a stranger Lila’d brought into their home.
To test their child’s uncertain gift.
* * *
Namron Setac wore a long sturdy brown coat unlike any Werfol had seen, with a wide flap that sat capelike over the shoulders and back, coming around to the front. He wore a bright red scarf bunched at his throat, making him look something like a bird, and had bright blue eyes that darted around the room as he entered.
Though he didn’t so much enter as slide into the room, paying attention to everything. Why he even stared a moment at the library fireplace, as if Ansnans didn’t have those, before sweeping his gaze over the books in their cases. “What a marvelous collection,” he exclaimed.
A compact man, neither tall nor short, wide nor narrow. His skin was brown with the sun or by nature, his short black hair shot through with a single streak of white, and Werfol could tell nothing about where he came from or what he was.
“Master Setac,” Semyn said, “this is my brother, Werfol Westietas.”
Blue eyes locked on his, then a short nod of the head. “Master Werfol.”
To show their would-be tutor proper manners, Werfol bowed to the floor, sweeping the carpet with two fingers. When he rose, he continued the gesture to indicate the nearer of the chairs. “Please sit with us, Master Setac.”
“Thank you, Werfol.” Semyn wore his official face, the one that showed polite attention and gave away nothing of his thoughts or feelings.
Werfol carefully did the same as they sat, glancing at Dutton, who looked bored.
But wasn’t.
A lie. For the first time, the young truthseer glimpsed the sort of lie to be forgiven, however uncomfortable it made him feel, a lie serving a good purpose. Dutton pretended to be bored so their guest would feel unthreatened. Relax.
Be less than cautious. Clever Dutton. Though the lie was like an itch; Werfol found it hard not to fidget.
“Our former tutor was an expert in mathematics, Master Setac,” Semyn said. “Do you have a particular specialty to teach us?”
Setac made a peculiar gesture, gathering air within cupped hands. “I have spent many years in Eldad, Master Semyn. It will be my pleasure to share not only the common language and culture, but the Crucib or tongue of knowledge, and the Banat, spoken by those of the deep south.”
“Are not all Eld the same?” Werfol challenged.
“No more than all Ansnans, Master Werfol. Or those of Rhoth. In fact,” Setac leaned forward, as though warming to the topic, “the Eld pride themselves on regional and social distinctions. The majority are dark of skin, for example, but some are lighter brown, with red hair, and others as pale as yourselves.”
The intriguing details stopped Werfol for a heartbeat, then he made himself frown again. “You’re Ansnan, then.”
“I own no domain, Master Werfol. I was born on a ship in the midst of the Sweet Sea, my mother a fisher from Eldad, my father of Ansnor.” He made the cupping gesture again. “The Eld acknowledge no one born outside their border. The Ansnans proved more welcoming, so yes, I call myself Ansnan when I must.”
Semyn’s finger sketched an urgent tiny signal. Werfol lowered his gaze at once, hopefully in time to hide its betraying golden glow. No matter. He’d seen truth in Setac’s face. Heard it ring in his voice. Time for a harder question.
“We’re of Rhoth, enemies of Ansnor.” He pretended to be sullen, fiddling with the buttons of his jerkin. “Why should we want you for a tutor?”
Semyn pretended to be upset with him. “Werfol! Please. Excuse my brother.”
“No excuse needed, Master Semyn. It is a good question. An important one,” Setac replied. “I’m here because you represent the future. If Mondir and Vorkou
n are to survive, there must be people able to understand one another. People able to find the truth in one another.”
At that, Werfol looked up, eyes blazing.
Two things happened. Dutton took a step forward, weapons rattling.
And Namron Setac sat back with a smile. “And lo, here you are.”
* * *
Lila let out a breath. Feeling much the same, Emon turned his head to regard her. “Who is this man?” he whispered.
“What he says: that rarity, an individual of loyalties beyond any one domain. Potentially with political insights of value to us.”
“That’s not why you’ve brought him here.” The mirror only allowed sound from one direction, but he kept his voice down. “He’s recognized Werfol’s gift!”
“One well used, to this point. I’d be disappointed if not, husband. Setac’s learned from cultures more accepting of magic than Rhoth.”
“Heart’s Blood.”
“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect he’d admit to searching for it.”
His heart clenched in his chest. “Lurgan—”
“Wait.” She’d never stopped watching through the mirror. Now her lips curved in a smile he knew. Anticipation.
Emon turned his attention back to the room.
* * *
Werfol surged to his feet, fists clenched. “Dutton, take off his head!”
“I agree,” Semyn said in a strange hard voice, on his feet too. “After we question him. Are you Glammis Lurgan?”
Semyn was smart. Eyes hot gold, Werfol stared at their would-be tutor, doing his best not to be afraid of what he might be.
Namron Setac met Werfol’s stare with remarkable, or foolish, calm, given Dutton drew his sword, boredom shed like the guise it had been, and sounded alarmingly dragonish as he growled, “Answer!”
“Of course.” Still looking at Werfol, he said, “I am who I say I am, nothing more and nothing less.”
Which was frustrating and vague and highly unhelpful. “Speak plainly!” Werfol demanded.
“Look deeper.” Setac leaned forward, his eyes like bits of pale blue glass. “See the truth.” He slipped gracefully from the chair to kneel before the boys, arms wide. “I am who I say I am.”
Sunlight glinted as the blade aligned with his neck. “Have a care.”
Werfol shook his head, not sure if at the guard or the man in front of him. “What do you mean?”
“The truths that matter come from beneath the surface. Only those can you trust. Look deeper to find them.”
“I don’t know how,” Werfol protested. “Our—no one’s told me how.” He was aghast how close he’d come to saying Uncle Bannan’s name. “Can you? Is that why you’re here?” with sudden desperate hope. “To teach me?”
“No one can,” came the disappointing answer. “It’s my understanding, Master Werfol, that each truthseer comes differently into the fullness of their gift. You learn by using it. Look at me. Concentrate on my face as well as my words—”
“Stop right there.” The blade touched skin, above the bright red scarf.
“I speak no spell,” Setac said without looking at Dutton. “I have no magic beyond knowledge. Werfol, listen. I am who I say I am, nothing more and nothing less. A teacher come to share other cultures, in hopes of future peace. Look deeper. Is this the truth?”
Werfol didn’t like being confused or confronted. It made him resentful and right now, that was better than being afraid. So he let himself feel angry and stared rudely and with all his might, not blinking at all.
The longer he stared, the bigger Setac’s face seemed to grow. Bigger and rounder, distorted as if he looked through one of Poppa’s lenses. Colors shifted. Brown skin darkening to black then become pale. Blue eyes going brown then blue again. Features blurred. Nose narrowing, then widening. Lips thin then thicker. A woman’s face, then a man’s. Other faces, as if he watched through time, and some were friendly—
And he reached one who was not, one who saw him back and hated him, and he cried out, staggering away. He would have fallen, but Poppa had him, and Momma stood in front with Dutton and Semyn too, and they were going to harm Setac, who cowered on his knees with his arms outstretched, and who wasn’t to blame for what he saw, but was merely the sum.
“It’s the truth!” Werfol heard someone cry in a voice that couldn’t be his, but must be because his throat burned and he choked—
All of which would have been enough and more for anyone, let alone one small boy, but when Werfol looked wildly beyond the adults, around the room, seeking what was safe and real—
—he found the white song stones of the fireplace—but they weren’t stones, not to this horrid deeper sight, they were tiny imprisoned people, with glaring eyes and lips like thick ripples open to scream—
Everything went dark.
The Dragon Sneaks In
There you are. I’ve missed you.
William clutched his bedcovers, staring into the dark. The voice came from somewhere very close, but that was impossible. His dragon couldn’t be here. The bedroom was too small, for one thing. And his dragon wasn’t allowed in the tower.
Which wasn’t true, William thought all at once. He’d kept the doors closed in case the creature tried to follow him inside like a stray cat. He should have made staying outside a command. He would—
Simon. His little brother, who didn’t know about dragons. Was he awake? If he was, he’d be afraid. Who wouldn’t be, with an uninvited dragon in their bedroom, in the dark?
“You mustn’t be here. Go away.”
You don’t mean that, precious William. You like having a dragon of your own. You’ve told me so.
A weight on his legs, impossibly heavy. William stifled a cry. “This isn’t the place for you. Go back outside.”
You’ve called me, darling William. You’ve dreamed me here and here I am. Spoken not as if the dragon were confused or bewildered, its feelings hurt by rejection, but as if the dragon were satisfied and smug.
Which made William very angry. “I did not call you and you aren’t allowed in our room.” He pushed off the impossible weight and threw a pillow. “BE GONE!” he commanded.
The light came on between the beds, Simon squinting at him. “Why are you shouting, William? Did you have a nightmare?”
“I’m the prince,” William reminded his little brother. “Princes don’t have nightmares. Go back to sleep.”
William lay awake in the dark. He hadn’t had a nightmare. His dragon had been here, hadn’t it? It had been real.
Had it? Or did he dream within a dream within a . . .
Six
Long dark lashes shadowed round cheeks pinked with fever heat. Eyes chased frantically behind closed lids even as the fingers of a hand scrabbled over the sheet. “He sees something,” Emon whispered.
“Or not.” With the lightest touch, Lila stroked Werfol’s sweat-beaded forehead, eased a lock of damp hair back into place. “In some truedreams, all there is is emotion. Fear. Confusion. Dread. Joy, that too. Less often,” she added.
Ancestors Beset and Bewildered. “You’re sure Weed truedreams—that this isn’t some ill brought on by using his other gift?” Which they’d made him do. Watched him do. The guilt was crushing.
Instead of offering reassurance, Lila sought her own. She cupped Werfol’s head in her hands, then closed her eyes. “I—yes, I feel it. He ’dreams.” Her hands lifted away. “He’s coming out of it on his own.”
A relief. From what Lila had shared with him of her gift, from what he’d seen of it, Emon knew it was dangerous to wake a dreamer, yet they could be ensnared by their own vision. Werfol’s truedream in Marrowdell had plunged the boy into a deadly coma. Lila had had to ’dream with their son, to guide him back in some way Emon didn’t understand but accepted. “Hearts of our Ancestors, we are Beholden—”
; “I was watching,” Semyn said abruptly. He stood at the foot of Werfol’s bed, as pale as his brother was flushed. “Weed saw things in Master Setac’s face we couldn’t see. Things he liked, at first, but then the last one scared him. I could tell.”
The brothers knew one another; better, Emon thought, than parents ever could. “Well done, Semyn. And bravely done by your brother, to use his last conscious breath to tell us Setac told the truth.” Thanks to that shout, their guest remained a guest and alive, examining books under Dutton’s wary eye.
Semyn shook his head. “Your pardon, Poppa, but that’s not what Weed said. His words were: ‘It’s the truth.’”
“Yes.” Lila’s gaze sharpened. “Referring to what Setac said, or claimed, or—”
* * *
Pencil. Where was his pencil? He had to find it. It had to be here. He had to find it before the words, the right words, faded away. He had to write them—had to write them now. If he didn’t—
He would, that was all. Then he’d be safe—
Something was wrong. He couldn’t find his pencil. The words were escaping—blurred by other words, words that weren’t his—
“—was it something else entirely?”
Momma’s voice? His eyes shot open in surprise, but Werfol already knew he wasn’t in the mews with the house toad—wasn’t in the library with the scary eyes—
He was in bed—
Where he had been, hadn’t he? In the dark—which wasn’t true, but had been. The sun shone through the windows, and his family surrounded him, and he wasn’t—the words—
Were gone.
Bereft, Werfol sat up, clutching his pillow to his chest. “What’s happening?” he asked numbly. “Why am I here? Why are you?”
“You got scared and fainted,” his older brother told him.
“I was not!” Werfol cried, throwing the pillow at Semyn’s head and launching himself after it in fury.
A Dragon for William Page 6
