A Dragon for William

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Momma’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

  “An Ansnan wouldn’t take an Earth Chime from its setting. They call it farenk, the act of stealing magic—in this case, its voice.”

  “Where we find the stones, on the mountainside,” Semyn said eagerly, “you hit any with a hammer and it makes a sound. It’s fun, isn’t it, Weed? You can play songs.”

  “Hardly magic,” Poppa demurred, though he looked interested. “A property of the type of stone, surely.”

  “If you take one away from the others,” Werfol argued, “it doesn’t work anymore.” They’d tried striking the song stones immured in the fireplaces. Remembering the stones’ frozen lips and eyes, his stomach roiled even more and he resolved never to hit one again.

  He felt Momma’s attention and sat straighter.

  Poppa’s eyes gleamed. “My ancestors considered them lucky to have in a home.”

  “While Ansnans won’t build anywhere Earth Chimes are found.”

  Werfol found himself nodding in agreement with their tutor. Momma’s gaze sharpened and he scrambled for another topic. “What about—”

  Momma turned to face the door, Dutton doing the same.

  “Your pardon, m’lord, m’lady.” Revis, their remaining housekeeper, bowed. “There’s a group outside the main door asking to enter.” The man’s dignity warred with curiosity. “They claim to be additions to the staff.”

  Poppa’s eyebrows rose. Momma smiled and Werfol felt a surge of hope. Sure enough, she leaned over to whisper: “Our discussion must wait till breakfast, sweetling. I’ll return your notebook then.”

  As though to ask forgiveness, which Momma never did, she kissed him on the cheek in front of everyone, like a child. Werfol felt himself blush. “Good night to you both,” she said as she stood.

  And with that, he and Semyn were sent to bed, Dutton following behind to keep what Werfol also knew would be a very close watch indeed.

  He couldn’t help looking back at Momma, who’d have his notebook for the night, worried what she’d think of it.

  He should have worried what she’d do with it.

  * * *

  A scrap of paper, touched by skin and pencil . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .

  And the dream unfolds . . .

  Silence. Darkness. Dread.

  . . . sweetling . . .

  Weight, unseen, appalling, crushing. Despair.

  . . . sweetling, I’m here . . . don’t be afraid . . .

  Feet running. Feet running. Feet running. FEAR!

  . . . I’m here, sweetling . . . find me . . . you’ll be safe . . .

  There is nothing more.

  A Tasty Pursuit

  Stop, William—

  William didn’t. He ran down the stairs, around and around, holding onto the wall because if he fell or stopped, the dragon would have him—

  Why are you running, sweet William? Are we not friends?

  They weren’t friends. They’d never been friends.

  William couldn’t spare the breath to argue. The dragon was inside the tower. A great slithering came from above, along with the sound of grinding rock and creaking wood and click of claw as it squeezed its bulk down the stairwell in pursuit.

  Being the bravest of the brave, William didn’t cry as he ran, though tears prickled his eyes and his breaths were like sobs. He had a plan. He would lure the dragon into the deepest dungeons. Lock it away where it couldn’t hurt anyone else.

  Too late for Simon and the pony. Who hadn’t been squashed to jelly, which was good, but had been pressed flat as toast by the cheese bun, which was horrible. Doctors had carried both away and would try to mend them. He didn’t think they could.

  Claws clicked. Rock groaned and rained dust to fill the air. It’s time to rest. Come home with me, dearest William.

  He tried to run faster and tripped, catching himself against the wall. When William took the next step, the stair wasn’t rock anymore but soft and sticky like pudding. He pulled his foot out of his boot and kept running until there were no steps, rock or pudding, left.

  He was at the bottom.

  There were no lights in the corridor leading away, into the base of the tower. There should be and he would order lights, William told himself firmly, if he survived. “This way, Dragon,” he shouted, plunging into the dark.

  Where a word waited. A whisper. “Sweetling.”

  The whisper didn’t belong.

  It wasn’t the voice of the dragon, clicking and slithering behind him. It wasn’t that of Simon or anyone in the kingdom, because William was the prince and knew all the voices in his care.

  “Sweetling, I’m here,” came the voice again, came the whisper. The dark pressed against him, soft and strangely warm, like a soothing blanket. “Don’t be afraid—”

  Who is this? crooned the dragon. I want THIS one! Bring them to me, my William, and I will leave you here.

  William knew better. The dragon couldn’t be trusted. “You LIE!” he shouted, finding a wall and putting his back to it. “You’re a big fat LIAR!”

  BRING ME THIS ONE! The wall shook with the force of the dragon’s command and William slipped to the floor, covering his face with his arms, because no matter how brave you are, there’s a time when it’s not enough.

  “I’m here, Sweetling,” came the whisper. “Find me. You’ll be safe.”

  But the whisperer wouldn’t be. The whisperer was too important and the dragon would find her first and steal her away and it couldn’t happen, mustn’t happen, how could he—

  “WEED!”

  Which wasn’t his name and wasn’t a whisper and wasn’t her voice but another’s he knew but couldn’t know.

  Before the dragon could find it and steal it away . . . William closed his eyes.

  Nine

  “Weed! Wake up!”

  Semyn was shaking him. Hard. So hard his teeth closed on his tongue and Werfol tasted blood but that was wonderful because it meant he was awake.

  Awake?

  “I wasn’t to sleep!” He grabbed his brother and held on with all his might. “I didn’t mean to sleep!”

  Semyn held him too. “Did I hurt you? Tell me I didn’t,” he begged. “Please. Heart’s Blood, I know I’m not to wake you when you truedream, but you were thrashing about like a headless chicken.”

  “You saved me,” Werfol said, as plainly as he could with all the holding tight of one another. “You did, Semyn. It’s all right. I’m all right. And—and I think—” he wriggled free to stare up at his brother by the light of the fireplace. “—I think you saved Momma too.”

  With a muttered oath, Semyn hugged him again, then moved away to touch their little magic lamp, brightening its glow. He came back to sit on Werfol’s bed, which did indeed look to have been the site of severe thrashing about, if not by a beheaded fowl, and turned so their faces were close. Despite being only two years older, barely, his grim expression was very like their Poppa’s. “Tell me everything.”

  So Werfol did, speaking in a whisper because Dutton was without doubt outside and mustn’t hear any of this.

  When he was done, he waited, trembling inside, knowing he wouldn’t be mad this time if Semyn accused him of embellishment. He would be empty, having lost something precious as surely as if the dragon reached in and—

  “I believe you.” The truth shone in Semyn’s eyes and rang in his voice and Werfol let out the breath he’d been holding.

  Then couldn’t resist. “Even about the dragon?”

  “Even that.” Semyn took hold of his shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Werfol. I should have believed you before. I know I can’t see what you do.” He drew himself up. “I, Semyn Westietas, vow to believe my brother Werfol Westietas, from now on.” A pause, then Semyn qualified with a prudent, “About important things. And
magic.”

  That was fair, Werfol decided. More than fair, because this moment’s closeness didn’t mean they wouldn’t argue ever again—if they survived the dragon—and he might be tempted to embellish now and then. “You’ll help me?”

  Instead of answering, Semyn got up and went to his bed. He pulled the notebook from under his pillow. “I asked Momma for it. We both know she’ll be too busy in the morning with the new staff and the party.”

  Werfol took it and flipped the pages. He found what he was afraid he would and held the book open. He pointed to the missing corner of a page. “It’s how Momma truedreams about whomever she wants,” he said miserably. “She told me on the way home. When she goes to sleep, she puts something from them in her mouth, like a thread or piece of paper, and the taste guides her.” He looked up at Semyn. “She really was in my ’dream and now the dragon—” he couldn’t finish.

  “The dragon won’t get Momma or you,” his brother declared. “It’s up to us, Weed. What do we do?”

  “I have to end William’s story. I’ll write the dragon away forever and—and then I’ll burn my notebook so Momma can’t taste any more pages and be in danger.”

  Semyn wanted to argue, he could see, but his brother didn’t know any better than he did how truedreams worked. “All right. I’ll get you a pencil.”

  “Ah—” Behind Semyn, the extra quilt at the end of his bed was moving. “I’m not sure here is the right place,” Werfol suggested. “Someone might come in—and we can’t put the notebook in our fire.” With a nod at the inconvenient grate. “Not without a racket.”

  “Where then?”

  Now two large eyes peeked from under the quilt, which was very distracting. He hadn’t mentioned the house toad, it being to Semyn’s credit that he was willing to accept dragons on Werfol’s word alone. The toad—and its present location—had seemed more a topic for later. Much later. Of course, he hadn’t left the thing on Semyn’s bed so it was hardly his fault—

  The eyes blinked. Was the house toad trying to tell him something?

  “Not here,” Werfol said again.

  Claw tipped toes stretched out and back again. Which meant agreement. Maybe. Probably.

  “The entire house is full of strangers,” Semyn thought aloud. “You can’t burn it in the mews or stables. Poppa’s workshop has been locked.”

  “Why?” Werfol asked, distracted by that.

  “To keep his model engine secret until he can show the Ansnan engineer.”

  “You’ve seen it.” For a wonder, Werfol didn’t feel jealous. Only wildly curious. “What’s it like?”

  “The engine? A machine. Metal.” Semyn shrugged. “You’ll understand it. Poppa’s secretly invited this Ansnan to the party. To help with the Eld train.”

  Werfol frowned. “Ansnans are the enemy.”

  “Not all of them,” his brother corrected, sounding just like Momma. “Now they’re neighbors.”

  Werfol digested that, then shrugged. “I’d thought about going to the old forester’s hut.”

  The house toad yawned, showing all its teeth, as Semyn reared back, his face gone pale. “No. We can’t—” And wasn’t that “we” the best word.

  Even if the “no” had been a bit too quick and definite. “Why not? It’s private.”

  “Because no one goes there,” Semyn retorted. “It’s too far anyway,” he added practically. “We couldn’t get there before someone misses us.”

  “We could on the kruar—Momma’s new horses,” Werfol explained.

  His brother sighed and shook his head. “Weed, you—Heart’s Blood! What’s that?”

  “That” being the house toad, who, when Werfol stopped watching it, had left its hiding place on Semyn’s bed and climbed onto Werfol’s, and now pushed its soft clammy face between the two boys. It blinked.

  “You can see it?!” Werfol exclaimed, careful to keep down his voice.

  Semyn’s arms were up in the air and his mouth worked without sound, implying that yes, indeed, he could see the great lump of toad on the bed.

  “I think it came with us from Marrowdell. They hide really well,” Werfol explained. “It can’t talk, but it’s smart. It knows about the dragon.”

  The house toad’s body expanded like a balloon, and its claws dug into the covers, as though tearing into a foe.

  “See?”

  His brother lowered his arms and peered at the toad, who subsided again to peer at him with equal interest. “What does it want?”

  “To help. Though I don’t know how it can.”

  The toad stretched out a foot to the notebook on Werfol’s lap, then opened its cavernous mouth suggestively.

  He snatched the book away. “Oh no, you don’t.”

  The mouth closed and the toad blinked.

  “Why not?” Semyn asked. “It’d be easier than burning it.”

  Because he’d looked deeper at this toad and seen what disapproved of boys and this world in general and every instinct he had warned him not to disturb that with a dragon—

  “I have to write the ending first,” Werfol said instead. “Then burn it. Burning is safer for you,” he told the toad.

  Who heaved a wistful sigh, then closed his eyes. Werfol felt no urge to do the same.

  “The bonfires tomorrow. On the terrace.”

  He squinted at Semyn. “Everyone will be there.”

  “That’s the best part. Anyone who wants will toss a bundle of sticks into the fire. No one will notice you tossing your notebook.”

  A most excellent plan, Werfol thought, nodding.

  “So, aren’t you going to write the end now?”

  That wasn’t. At the mere thought, Werfol felt as if the dragon’s claws were wrapping around him and he trembled. The house toad climbed into his lap, heavy and limp, but a comfort nonetheless. “I’d like to wait for daylight,” he admitted.

  Semyn put an arm around his shoulders. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll stay with you,” he promised.

  “If I’m awake,” Werfol countered, and trembled again. “I mustn’t sleep again, Semyn. I can’t.”

  “Then you won’t,” his brother assured him. Semyn brightened the light until stars glared down from the ceiling like tiny suns, then began pulling books from the shelves. “We’ll stay up and study. Let’s show Master Setac we know about the Eld too.” He made them into stacks on the floor. “C’mon.”

  As Werfol went to do just that, a cramp bent him double.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He managed a wan grin. “Beets . . .”

  * * *

  Emon held the woman he loved more than life itself in his arms, helpless in the battle she fought. She shivered violently despite the blankets over them both, despite the warmth of his body along hers, but it was no natural chill. Far from the first time Lila had sunk into a dream—a truedream—to be wracked by cold, as if she consumed the fire within herself, spending it without thought of the cost, to protect those she loved.

  He waited, eyes open and gazing, seeing nothing in the dark of their room but the flicker of banked embers from the fireplace. He waited to learn who it was this time, though Ancestors Witness, he’d little doubt it’d be their youngest son. And wasn’t that a new and terrible thing, that Lila felt she’d had to truedream answers when their boys slept down the hall?

  Magical doings. Emon pressed his cheek against soft silky hair, thinking of the Ansnans, with their tokens and magical wishings. Of Rhothans who’d come to scorn magic, yet would smuggle in what they could of it. Hardly better, was he, with his fascination with the magic of Mellynne? At least there, people could watch magic happening. Buy the results in an open market to bring home.

  The fluid that kept the magic working outside of Mellynne, their Silver Tears, now that was a fascination. The crafters of magic sealed it within their clever devices, or pain
ted it on surfaces to be fired with glaze overtop. They’d myriad ways to keep what only they possessed a secret.

  He’d thought to scrape some tears from an artifact. To test, as he might any chemical formulation. With care, of course.

  The stuff had vanished. He recovered none.

  An indrawn breath, a tiny gasp, then, less than a whisper, “Sweetling.”

  Emon froze, lest he disturb Lila’s concentration.

  “Sweetling, I’m here. Don’t be afraid—”

  Making him afraid. What was happening? He tried not to breathe.

  “I’m here, Sweetling. Find me. You’ll be safe.”

  Though it wasn’t his will that could matter, Emon wished with all his might their son would answer—

  The shivers stopped. Lila sighed, tension flowing away as she curled like a cat deeper into his embrace.

  This stage was familiar too. She would sleep now, too deeply to rouse and protect herself, the sort of sleep Lila would never permit herself if not for the drug she used to ’dream. Emon gave a silent beholding to every ancestor he had that Lila was here, with him, this time. Safe.

  He smiled ruefully into her hair, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate the prayer. Lila truedreamed hidden in a bush, or in a cave. A closet. Anywhere away from people. This, being willing to ’dream in their bed, with him, exposed the depth of her concern for Weed.

  When she woke, perhaps she’d have some answers.

  Ten

  The estate had an immense formal dining room that could be opened onto the summer parlor to host lavish entertainments. Their belated Midwinter Beholding festival didn’t fall into that category, but the staff they’d left, together with the staff they’d gained, had been busy since dawn shifting furniture and stringing colorful decorations.

  Emon walked through the summer parlor, exchanging nods and smiles with people he’d too briefly met the night before, feeling somewhat lost in his own home. The parlor stretched across the rear of the building, with windows from floor to ceiling on three sides that could be removed, allowing unfettered access to the broad stone terrace outside.