A Dragon for William

by Julie E. Czerneda

  His notebook had never slipped this far down before. Werfol looked at the toad. “Did you push it?” But the toad remained silent, even when the boy climbed off the stack of bags and began pulling the topmost off. “You’ll have to move,” he told it, because the bag was full and already heavy.

  The toad dug its claws into the bag and squatted, plainly ready to hang on for dear life. Which meant Werfol had to pick up the bag with toad, instead of letting it slide to the floor, and set both down with care.

  He was puffing by the time he was done and grumpy. “You’re not welcome,” he told the toad, then jumped on the remaining bags and reached behind for his notebook. His fingers swept along the floor, through a disgusting mix of cobwebs, hardened discs of pigeon poo, and other debris. There. The piece of blanket.

  He pulled it up, but it was empty. His notebook was gone. Werfol wriggled to his feet, wiping his hands on his coat as he confronted the house toad. “Did you eat it?” Which the toads could do, he’d learned. They put the strangest things in their wide mouths. Then laid delicious eggs, but that wasn’t the point. “Give it back!”

  In answer, the house toad yawned, sharp teeth framing its deep and glistening and empty mouth.

  “But if it wasn’t you—your pardon,” Werfol mumbled.

  Now thoroughly alarmed, he tore through the mews from one end to the other, turning over anything that could hide a pencil, let alone his notebook. JoJo, thinking better of being involved, kept well away. The pigeons startled out of the mews and away with loud wing claps, meaning they were thoroughly upset which Momma wouldn’t like, but Werfol couldn’t stop his frantic search. He had to find it!

  But it wasn’t to be found.

  Defeated, Werfol sank down in the middle of the floor, tears rolling over his cheeks to leave pocks in the dust and blotches on his coat. JoJo came to sit close to his right side. The house toad sidled up to his left. Werfol put his arms around both and felt very much afraid. “What am I going to do?” he whispered.

  A bird arrived on an upper perch. It wasn’t a returning pigeon, but Scatterwit, again. Jojo hissed, the toad blinked, and Werfol looked up with a sigh. “What do you want now?”

  The crow signed a message. Come to supper.

  Ridiculous bird. As if everything were normal and nothing had happened and he should join his family at the fancy table the way they’d always done before everything went wrong.

  His family—

  One of them must have taken his notebook. No one else entered the mews. Probably—no, Werfol was certain. Semyn. It had to be. Semyn had come earlier to look after the birds and snooped and found it and took it.

  To Werfol’s surprise, he didn’t feel mad. Not at all. He was, in a strange way, almost relieved, as if the notebook had been a heavy weight he hadn’t noticed till now.

  Ignoring the crow, he hugged JoJo, who tenderly nibbled his hair, and thought.

  He thought how his brother was very smart. Smarter than Dutton. As smart as Poppa, in his own way, though not as smart as Momma. Not yet, anyway.

  He thought how Semyn feared something was wrong with him and was right about that.

  Werfol nodded to himself. Having found the notebook, Semyn would read it for clues about what.

  By now, Momma and Poppa might have too.

  Werfol hugged the house toad, who objected with a strained croak, and wriggled free with a pop that startled the crow.

  They’d read William was afraid, and know it was his fear. Guess that somehow his story was dangerous and his very very smart family would conspire against him for his own good. They wouldn’t let him write any more.

  Even though he must. To save himself and his family and maybe the whole world from William’s dragon, he needed his notebook back and a place to write where they couldn’t stop him.

  The house toad blinked at him, as if it approved the plan.

  Where, though.

  The old forester’s hut? Werfol shuddered. The hut on the near slope was a haunt, shunned and abandoned because there were things there. Everyone said so. Well, not Momma or Poppa, but everyone else. Not Cook who’d been a spy but that, he decided, made it more likely to be true.

  Children were afraid of the hut. He was afraid of it.

  Meaning no one would look for him there.

  If only he hadn’t already given Dutton the slip. The guard wouldn’t be fooled again. There’d be no easy sneaking out—not unless—“Momma’s party,” he told the toad. Everyone would be busy. Everyone have a task, including him and Semyn, even if just watching the cakes, and no one would expect him to leave or notice if he did.

  The party was tomorrow night. All he had to do was stay awake till then. The dragon came to his dreams—his truedreams. That’s when it tried to take him and Werfol feared that’s when it could. He mustn’t sleep until he was ready to write an end to the dragon.

  Not so much as a nap and fainting—or hitting his head—was definitely out.

  The mere thought made him want to yawn. Instead, Werfol looked up at the crow, his tear-streaked face composed and calm. “Please tell Poppa I’ll be there as soon as I’m clean.” Signing the words on my way to be polite.

  Scatterwit bobbed her head and flew off, but when Werfol went to leave, the house toad blocked his path, gazing up with its big dark eyes.

  An ally would be welcome.

  A spy would not. Suddenly wary, Werfol squatted down in front of the creature and looked deeper.

  Skin became chainmail. Warts became jeweled ornaments—no, not simple gauds, but medals. Marks of accomplishment. The eyes—the eyes were nothing human yet all at once their calm regard reminded Werfol of Dutton and he’d have felt reassured but for what he saw next.

  For beneath the simple toad and under the armored soldier was another, growing larger—no, being larger, much larger, and not happy to be bothered by a boy, not happy at all—Her vast mouth opened to swallow him up—

  Werfol scrambled backward to avoid being eaten. He blinked and his eyes cleared. “Who was that?”

  The house toad blinked too, as if to dismiss the entire matter. Or to suggest it was none of his business.

  A dragon being entirely sufficient, Werfol thought, in full agreement. “Let’s get you out of here,” he told the toad.

  Then he stuffed it, cold and limp, under his coat.

  Eight

  The Westietas took evening meals together in the small dining hall off the kitchen, or had, before being divided. Tonight, as a kindness to their extremely busy cook, Lila had invited Master Setac and Dutton to share their table. Semyn, for a wonder, had come too.

  Emon watched the tutor gaze around the room. The shelves on the wall were a clutter of pine cones and dried snail shells, carvings and rocks. A deer’s rib. Treasures from the boys’ summer. Lila’s favorite swords hung over the mantel of the ubiquitous fireplace. Emon’s latest clockwork stood in one corner, the hands frozen at 3:45. He gave it an irritated look and prepared to explain—

  “Weed’s coming? You’re sure?”

  In answer, Scatterwit gave a smug clockclock deep in her throat.

  Semyn settled in his chair, clearly trying not to look relieved.

  Emon couldn’t help but smile. “Ancestors Witness, it’s a good night to be together. Cook has outdone herself.” Despite the challenge of producing a feast for tomorrow night, their new cook hadn’t stinted the family, serving succulent roast squab—Lila’s flock having more than one use—alongside a tureen of creamy potato soup with crusts of bread, and warm spiced beets. He took a longing sniff.

  Lila raised a brow.

  “We will, of course, wait for your brother,” Emon said, lifting his wine glass to his lady wife.

  “Usefully,” she replied, raising her own. “I’ve a message from Chancellor Milne. Rober finds himself in need of a champion.”

  Heart
’s Blood. “What now?”

  “The ossuaries.”

  Emon put down his glass. The ossuary with the bones of his Blessed Ancestors, to be joined one hopefully far off day with his, stood above the tree line to the west, overlooking the estate. An uncommon choice.

  The rest of Vorkoun kept their dead close.

  Semyn’s gaze slid past the stranger at their table, settling on his father. “What’s wrong?”

  Lila’s fingers toyed with the pendant between her breasts. It was called an endearment, a gift Emon had brought her years ago, able to hold a voice. Once his, then hers to comfort their boys, and now—now he was afraid to ask. She spoke evenly. “We’ll let Master Setac explain.”

  Heart’s Blood. Emon gritted his teeth, keeping outwardly calm. His heir needed to know such things; Lila tested his tutor. Efficient, to accomplish both in one move, but he was aware of Dutton, looming and silent beside Setac. Was this part of Lila’s intent, that Werfol’s guard see the mountains resting on the small shoulders of their sons?

  Likely. If she thought Dutton underestimated them, she’d want that corrected before Weed managed more than a clandestine trip to the mews.

  Nodding with good grace, Setac turned to Semyn. “Ansnans find some—several—Rhothan beliefs difficult to comprehend. In particular, Master Semyn, the respect paid to the remains of your dead. In Ansnor, forgive my bluntness, such bones are ground up for fertilizer.”

  The boy didn’t flinch. His face took on a curious, listening expression. “Is that what the Ansnans in Vorkoun intend to do? Take bones from our ossuaries?” His voice chilled. “They must not.” And it wasn’t the protest of a child, but the certainty of an adult seeing the grim consequence.

  Unlike Ordo when he gave their city away, Emon thought, proud of their son. Disturb the peace of the Blessed Ancestors—see ossuaries crushed to make room for the Eldad’s train? Ancestors Disturbed and Distressed, he swore to himself. The prince’s kin had bones in Vorkoun. May they give the fool nightmares.

  “I concur,” Setac told Semyn as solemnly. “To desecrate the holy places of others is an unforgiveable offense. The Ansnans may not understand your practices, but this is a peaceful exchange of territory. Surely those selected to come to Vorkoun will respect—”

  Lila tapped her knife’s tip, once, against her plate. The sound shivered through the room, reflecting in startled eyes, to silence what else the tutor thought to say. “‘Respect’,” she echoed softly. “Semyn?”

  Lashes swept up, revealing a cool steady gaze. “What my esteemed mother wishes you to learn, Master Setac, is this is not a house for platitudes or where we avoid uncomfortable truths. Those who’ve taken over our city will put their own interests above ours. Their beliefs, above ours. We who remain in Vorkoun understand there must be compromise, but not in everything. The Ansnans would be—” the deliberate pause before the word was pure Lila “—wise to consider their actions with care.”

  The tutor’s eyes gleamed. He bowed his head briefly. “Master Semyn, allow me to retract my previous statement as inaccurate and unhelpful. The Ansnans assigned to the city’s transition of rule will be well aware of the flash points between cultures. My belief is death by torture will be the appropriate penalty for attempted desecration.”

  “News to please our chancellor.” Lila’s smile chilled the room. “Thank you, Namron. I’m gratified to find you an asset.”

  The man swallowed at that, bowing his head a second time, more deeply. Aware, Emon decided, of the reputation of the deceptively dainty figure sharing the table. Good.

  Scatterwit cawed an alert.

  * * *

  Werfol walked in, keeping his head high. His family stared at him, but they were the ones with a guilty secret, having taken his notebook and read it and talked about it, while he’d not only scrubbed his face and hands, but combed his hair and put on fresh clothes. Even his boots shone. Who was in the right? He was.

  Shaking his head, Semyn picked up his fork as Poppa gave a sigh of relief. They’d waited on supper, putting him back in the wrong again.

  Ancestors Perplexed and Put Upon.

  Recovering, Werfol gave his most elegant bow. “Forgive my being late to the table, esteemed Mother and Father. Semyn. Master Setac.” With a polite nod to each in turn, though it was hard not to dwell on the tutor who might know magic and have answers. Werfol finished by bowing to Dutton. “Don’t worry, Dutton,” he assured the guard, whose regard was unsettlingly grim. “You’re not in trouble. I just needed some air.”

  Dutton’s face turned an interesting shade, more purple than pink; Poppa appeared to choke on his wine.

  Werfol hurried to sit before more could happen, but before he could take his usual seat, luckily beside Master Setac and not facing the fireplace, Momma waved him to the chair by hers.

  As he sat, she leaned close to speak in his ear. “Taking the offensive. A bold choice.”

  “Than—”

  “I didn’t say it was the correct one.”

  Werfol swallowed and tried not to shrink. “Yes, Momma.”

  “We will have a discussion concerning fairness to those around us after supper, at which time I’ll return your notebook.” Momma straightened and raised her voice. “The beholding, Werfol, if you please.”

  Semyn set aside his fork and sighed.

  True, his beholdings tended to be expansive, because in Werfol’s view you should be grateful for everything, including whatever wonderful surprise you found on a nature path or—but he was well aware this wasn’t one of those times.

  Besides, the sooner this meal was done, the sooner he’d have his notebook.

  He refused to think about the upcoming discussion with Momma.

  Werfol circled his fingers over his heart. “Hearts of our Ancestors, I am Beholden for this food for we’re all very hungry. However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”

  “‘Keep Us Close,’” the others echoed hurriedly, even Master Setac who wasn’t, as far as anyone knew, of Rhoth at all. Werfol didn’t feel any itch. Maybe their tutor needed a job and wanted to stay with them, giving the wish a different truth. Unless he was a spy—

  —no, more likely, the man had learned to act as those around him, which was, Werfol decided, good manners. Besides, if he were a spy?

  Momma would find out.

  The muted cheery sounds of cutlery and dishes filled the room, light reflecting from glassware.

  It reflected from the twin song stones of the fireplace and Werfol couldn’t resist a quick worried glance, but the stones kept their secrets too. Relieved, he turned his attention to his plate and his plan. “Poppa, may I have more beets, please?” he asked.

  Semyn, who knew what happened when Werfol ate too many beets, namely a sore stomach and sleepless night, gave him a sharp look but kept silent.

  Poppa, who didn’t know and loved beets himself, ladled on a goodly portion. “Here you go. Enjoy, lad.” He used the voice that meant he wanted to pretend Werfol wasn’t in trouble, which wasn’t quite a lie, but the pretense made the truthseer squirm, a little.

  To avoid any more such feelings, Werfol did his best not look at anyone except Semyn, who appeared uncomfortable too. The silence didn’t help; everyone having waited, there was little conversation until dessert arrived on a tray.

  Being something new, Werfol thought, stretching up to see better. A pie plate, filled with cake bits drizzled with syrup. It looked delicious.

  To his surprise, Momma frowned at the cook. “Ioana, you were to rest. I ordered it.”

  Scolded, the cook grinned, which very few would dare. She’d very few teeth left, too, Werfol observed with rising interest. “This is rest,” the cook replied cheerfully. “Ancestors Bright and Busy, what with the pig in its pit for tomorrow and bread rising, I had to do something with the scraps, you know. Nothing like a cobbledeedo.” She gave Werfol a bold
wink. “The lads like their sweets. Take after you and your brother, Lila-dear, they do.”

  Making their new cook Momma’s former cook, before she became a baroness to live with Poppa. No wonder she was so old. Werfol met Semyn’s disappointed look with his own. Mistress Ioana would have stories worth hearing; they might not be worth Momma finding out to ask.

  “‘Cobbledeedo’?” Poppa echoed once the cook left the room.

  “Bannan’s name for it.” Momma’s lips quirked to the side. “Come. We’ll have to eat the whole thing or Ioana will never let me hear the end of it.”

  The cobbledeedo was indeed scraps, the best kind, being bits of three kinds of cake—an early taste of tomorrow’s feast—stuck together with pudding, topped with sweet syrup and nut shavings. They set to with good will, Dutton taking a second bowl, though Werfol’s stomach had noticed the beets. Good, he thought.

  Then plates were put aside and wine glasses refilled; the tell-tale signs of imminent adult conversation. Which could be interesting and important, Werfol knew, depending on the topic, but most likely would be about tomorrow’s festival and guest list, which would be one but not the other.

  Even more likely, at this time of the night, they’d be dismissed to go to bed, though hadn’t Momma warned they’d have a discussion?

  Before he made himself dizzy with likely this or thats, and to delay any discussion in which he was the unwilling subject, Werfol hastily thought of a question. “Master Setac, what do you know of song stones?” Which he could see over the man’s right shoulder, so he quickly focused on his scarf.

  “Do you not wish to learn about truthseers, Master Werfol?”

  He didn’t need to signal his brother. Semyn cut in with a prompt, “Not before bed, if you please.”

  Werfol nodded, doing his best to appear overtired. Which was a little too easy, so he had to hope the beets did their work.

  “Very well.” Setac steepled his fingers, casting a glance over his shoulder at the fireplace and its stones. An oddly wary glance. “Such stones are another point of disagreement between Ansnan and Rhothan beliefs.”