Without warning, the guard rose to his feet. He bowed, first to Semyn, then to Werfol. Finished, he went to one knee in order to look them in the eye. His own were glistening. “Forgive me. I have not served you as I should, not in my heart. I made the assumptions you say. Believed myself in charge because of your years, forgetting who you are. I have failed in my trust. By my Ancestors, if you give me the chance, I will not fail you again.”
Overwhelmed by the intensity of such truth, Werfol threw himself into Dutton’s arms, feeling Semyn follow. They hugged him and he hugged them.
And that was how Momma found them.
* * *
“We’ve lost Dutton.”
Emon glanced up from his model. “In what way?”
Lila picked up one of his paintbrushes, twirling it in her fingers. “He’s succumbed to our sons. He’s theirs now and cannot be trusted.”
“Finally.” Emon chuckled as Lila’s smile grew. “You predicted it,” he reminded her.
“I’d hoped,” she replied. “Dutton couldn’t heal while serving either of us, not fully. The boys couldn’t trust him unless he committed to them instead of us. The result?” She shot the brush into its cup like a tiny spear. “Should be interesting. You realize some of those coming tonight will judge you the worst sort of fool, ceding your most lethal guard to your sons and heir. They’ll think you don’t want the barony.”
“I don’t,” he dared say, but only here and only to this woman, who understood his acceptance of a life of service wasn’t about power or rule, it was about doing the work that needed to be done. For their family. For every family. “Besides, aren’t you my most lethal guard?”
“Our secret,” Lila said archly. She eyed Werfol’s satchel, hanging by its strap from a chair, the fake notebook inside. “It seems I may have spilled the wrong one to our youngest.”
“We want them to exceed our grasp, do we not?”
For an instant, her face softened. She curved her arms. “Remember when they fit within it?”
“Even as a babe, Weed wriggled like a fish,” he replied, but yes, how could he not remember? Those blissful, peaceful years, ending each night with baths and cuddles, with books and blankets together by the fire—not that he’d been home as often as he wished, not by far—but each night had been precious.
“We cradle them still, Dearest Heart, within our love. May the Ancestors Keep Us Close.”
She kissed his cheek, then left sentiment behind with a brisk, “Best finish soon. We need to dress, m’lord husband.”
He looked out the window. The sun was spilling through the valley approach, burnishing the trees. Late afternoon, that meant. Somewhere, out there, a stranger waited. Alone, if the message could be trusted. Trusting them, Emon thought. “Have you any word of our special guest? Dutton’s worrying.”
“No, but I did order the kruar well fed and locked in the stable. They aren’t yet as—” her lips pursed in consideration “—biddable as Bannan’s Scourge.”
Heart’s Blood, how had he forgotten that threat? “Thank you.”
“As for our guest, I suggested taking shelter in the ossuary. With all due reverence,” she added, suggesting that had been in a message too.
Clever. The Rhothans attending wouldn’t think to violate another family’s ossuary. Still. He couldn’t help an inner wince. “My parents’ bones won’t be happy. Hearts of my Ancestors, forgive us.”
A brow lifted. “Most of your ancestors were friendly with the Ansnans, as were mine.”
He cheered. “May it be the same again.”
“Dress, m’lord husband,” his wife ordered, heading for their bedroom. She threw him a look over one shoulder. “I’ll settle for peace.”
* * *
The first guests arrived two hours before the sun would set behind the peaks. Werfol and Semyn stood with their parents, each resplendent in their festive best, to greet them in the lobby. Momma’s uncle, Yatton Larmensu, who gave the boys a short bow and a wink. Poppa’s two aunts and their adult sons, looking relieved. There should have been no need to ask for weapons, for these were the closest of family, and none appeared to be carrying any, but Momma had insisted Semyn practice, so he bowed again and ordered, in his clear ringing voice, “During our Midwinter Beholding, there shall be no arms within our house. Please put yours in my care and surety.”
A guard pushed forward the first of several large trolleys. Each supported a chest with velvet-lined drawers. Semyn pulled open the nearest and waited.
“Ancestors Wry and Wizened,” Cousin Wanup said, looking perturbed, but Great Uncle Yatton came forward at once, producing a small pistol and jeweled dagger from under his fancy tunic, and then it became something of a game with the others pulling their own hidden weaponry out and laughing at one another.
Though it wasn’t a game, not really. Since the treaty, perhaps during all the conflict with Ansnor, danger walked the streets of Vorkoun and, as Momma would say, anyone who roamed those streets unprepared to protect themselves was a fool.
They would ask Dutton for small daggers like their great uncle’s, Werfol decided, before roaming.
For a short time, it really was a Midwinter Beholding. The Westietas and Larmensu sat to exchange small gifts, and there was more laughter and good wishes. Poppa was praised for annoying the prince. The boys were made much of for their brave adventures, for these were people who knew Uncle Bannan had settled up north in the wilderness, if not what he was or where.
Werfol almost relaxed, but not quite; even the best of family could lie to one another, meaning well, and they mustn’t see him flinch and guess the reason.
“Chancellor Milne, m’lord.”
With that announcement, the festivities changed their tone, becoming more business-like and no longer relaxed at all. While family first was understandable, Poppa and Momma knew better than to stagger their guests so the arrival list revealed who was trusted and who not. The chancellor was; those who followed him through the entrance were not.
With a nod to Dutton, Werfol slipped away to the kitchen where he could watch from the door, shielded by the stream of wait staff with trays.
“Lad. LAD!”
Werfol turned to find the cook beckoning urgently with a wooden spoon as long as his arm. He wormed his way through the hectic kitchen to her side; being smallest had its advantages. “Yes, Mistress Ioana?”
She wasn’t much taller, except for the hump on her back, so their eyes could meet. She regarded him a moment, seemingly oblivious to the bedlam in the room, then nodded. “I’ve made you a knot charm.” Thrusting her hand in a very well used apron, she produced what was indeed a knot.
In a dingy, very well used, handkerchief. Werfol’s skin crawled as he took it between two fingertips. “What is it?”
She leaned closer. “Smell it, lad.”
He really didn’t want to, but there was no way to refuse. Werfol brought the thing near his nose and took a cautious sniff.
Cinnamon and sweaty feet.
Wide-eyed, he stared up at her.
“Made one for my Lila-dear too, I did,” the surprising cook told him with a crooked little smile. “Keep it near, lad.”
“I will,” he promised, tucking the now-precious scrap inside his shirt, beneath his best jerkin. Where it wouldn’t, he hoped, smell as strongly.
While keeping away the ’dreams.
* * *
The floor filled with people, soon spilling out onto the terrace. They gathered in groups of three or four, voices subdued, the result a low murmur barely louder than the trio playing strings in the large dining room. No one pretended this was anything but what it was, a meeting of Vorkoun’s powerful.
Westietas allies, ostensibly, so Emon moved graciously from group to group, listening to grievances, reassuring those who were afraid as best he could, taking stock of those who were more inter
ested in how he planned to regain his seat in the House of Keys. They were united only in their curiosity about tonight. He glimpsed Lila doing the same, blue velvet clinging to her tall slender form, hair twisted in a crown. Impossible to imagine any hiding place for weapons, but he’d watched her dress.
Chancellor Milne stood in his own circle, glass in hand. Emon joined them, accepting the short bows with one of his own. “Welcome, all,” he said.
“We were wondering when you’re going to speak, m’lord,” Milne replied, a gleam in his eye. He knew the agenda for tonight, if not what Emon hoped to be the grand finale.
“Once the bonfires are near done. After all, we’ve food and drink and friendship to enjoy first.”
The circle, seven women and men who arguably worked hardest to keep the city functioning during the transition and stood most to lose if it failed, exchanged meaningful looks. Dismay was among them, so Emon changed his mind. “I ask that you, Vorkoun’s heart and soul, move among the rest assembled here and tell them their baron continues to fight for them. Tell them I will not permit any part of our beloved city to be demolished or damaged for the Eld’s train.”
Milne’s eyes narrowed; this, to him, was news.
“Tell them my firm intention is to see Vorkoun not only survive but thrive in the years ahead. There will be specifics and details in my speech,” he added.
Gore, administrator of waterworks, actually chuckled. “Ancestors Droll and Determined, m’lord, that should keep most from drinking your cellar dry first.”
“Or leaving early,” pointed out Fullarton, the badge of the potter’s guild she led etched on her tunic.
“The message to spread tonight,” Emon told them, lifting his head, eyes afire, “is hope.”
* * *
The lies had won.
The little truthseer shuddered, his back to a cold damp tree. Fancy clothes weren’t the warmest but Werfol didn’t dare go close to the bonfires where the liars would soon gather. Or back in the house, where they filled every scrap of space until he’d endured as much as he could, though he’d quietly thrown up on the floor behind the cakes—
The lies had ruined the plan. Semyn was to be with him. And Dutton. But none of them, not even Master Setac or his parents or the cook, had been there when the Worst Liar came up for cake and saw him.
When the Worst Liar said, “Master Werfol, I’m delighted you’re home safe,” his skin had burned.
When she’d said, “How is your uncle? We’re old friends, you know. You can talk to me.” With a wink. “I do hope Bannan plans to come home soon. Do you know when?”
His heart had shrunk and stuttered.
When she’d leaned over the table to say, “How rude you are, not to answer your elders. And what’s wrong with your eyes—”
Werfol had run.
The tree was solid. It wasn’t full dark on the terrace, but it was under the tree, and people with their eyes on the fires and each other wouldn’t see him.
The lies kept him from going back. They tasted like vomit in his mouth and his heart—his heart hurt.
Werfol wrapped his arms around his middle. Paper crinkled.
He’d a pencil. Three, in fact, sharpened with Semyn’s knife and tucked into the belt.
The boy pulled away from the tree, turned away from the fires. He gave his eyes a moment. Yes. The sun was low, but beams found the path to the ossuary. There was a brighter patch beyond that, enough for him to write the words he must. He’d the knot charm.
And yes, he was afraid, but he’d been afraid, Werfol realized sadly, for a long time. Fear was an annoying companion, one that niggled and complained like his now-empty stomach, and he discovered he could ignore it if he thought more about his stomach than how scared he was as he walked into the forest, up the path, and away from home.
Twelve
“Your pardon. A moment, Poppa?”
Emon looked down, then hoped his face was as composed as his son’s for there could be only one reason for Semyn to be fighting to catch his breath. “Excuse us,” he said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Before they could leave, a silky voice intruded. “Your sons appear to disadvantage tonight, Baron Westietas. Interrupting. Being rude. Why you’d think their time in the wild north had corrupted them.”
Before he could respond, Lila was there, as Lila always was the instant there was threat, and her charming smile sent a shiver down his spine. She interposed herself between the woman and her family, saying in an easy, friendly tone, “Oh, do let’s have a chat about child-rearing, Lady Estaire. I know I look forward to it.”
Had the lady been innocent, she would have been agreeable. Instead, she frowned and took a step back, tossing the end of her golden shawl over a bare shoulder. “I’ve no interest in brats.”
Emon didn’t wait to hear Lila’s response, though doubtless he’d have enjoyed it. Instead, he made his escape with Semyn. Dutton spotted them and met them in the privacy of the small dining room, standing anxious and silent by the door.
Emon knelt, taking both of Semyn’s shoulders in a gentle grip, searching his face. “Where’s your brother?”
Safe from strangers, Semyn’s composure vanished and he looked every bit the frightened child he was. “I don’t know, Poppa. He was to wait behind the cakes for me until everyone went out to the terrace for the fires.”
“And for me, sir,” Dutton put in quietly. “Sometimes he’d be ducking under the table—”
“When people lied,” Semyn explained. Emon felt sick. “But he’s not there now.”
The guard paled. “M’lord—”
Emon waved away the apology. “Is Weed still in the house?”
“No, Poppa.” Faint. Terrifying. “And he won’t be in the mews. He has to burn the pages, you see. After—after he writes the ending.”
Lila had joined them. She’d see it too, how they’d missed the significance of the fake notebook—it wasn’t just to keep Lila from truedreaming Werfol, but for this. So Werfol could keep writing his story. “Why must Werfol write the ending?” she asked their son, calm as glass.
Semyn shivered. “To stop his dragon before it becomes real and hurts everyone. It’s not a good one like Wisp.”
“Heart’s Blood. You remember?” Emon asked in astonishment.
“It doesn’t matter if I remember for myself or not,” the boy said firmly. “I was wrong to doubt Werfol. About Marrowdell and about this. I believe him.”
“As you should. Well done.” Lila turned to Dutton. “Release the kruar. They’ll find Werfol before any of us could.” The guard spun on a heel and left.
“What of our poor guest?” Emon remembered Bannan’s bloodcurdling tales of Scourge as a sentry.
“If the Ansnan stays in the ossuary, and offers no threat to Werfol, the kruar will leave him be. They’ve fed.”
Semyn’s eyes went round, implying this part of Marrowdell he hadn’t heard about from his brother. Emon sighed. “We must stay, or this gathering is for naught. I need you here.”
“You need Momma and the guards.” Semyn straightened. “Let me go. I could take Master Setac. Werfol needs me.”
“Dauntless and Spirit will protect Werfol. Dutton will bring him home.” Lila bent to look their son in the eye. “What Werfol needs most right now is to finish what he’s started.”
“Lila—” Emon breathed.
She didn’t look at him. Perhaps couldn’t. “Semyn, am I right? Is this Werfol’s battle?”
He could see the struggle in the boy’s face. The need to protect, to be there for his brother, against what his mother asked of him, to understand why someone might be better left alone, to come through a personal struggle.
Emon saw Semyn age before his eyes, becoming calm and resolved and in no sense but pride the child he’d remembered cradling. “No, Momma. You’re wrong. Th
is is about all of us and Werfol can’t do it alone. What he’s written—it’s more than a story. It’s a—a gate. He has to close it.”
* * *
Werfol was being followed. He hoped it was Semyn and Dutton, realizing he’d started his part of the plan without them, but feared it was the Worst Liar.
Or maybe a bear.
Though the footsteps he heard were soft. More like scuffles in the leaves. Come to think of it, they didn’t sound like footsteps, not like his, but more like random plops, as if someone tossed something that bounced.
He stopped on the path and made himself turn around to see.
The house toad landed in the midst of the leaves, plop, then sat regarding him with its big eyes.
Werfol looked back to the house, barely visible now through the trees. It would have taken a great number of hops and plops, not to mention sneaking, to catch up to him out here, and it was cold for the toad. He managed a wan smile, then scooped up the lump of creature, tucking it as best as he could inside his tunic. He didn’t have much warmth to share, but the toad snuggled in under his armpit, oddly smaller than it had seemed.
No less heavy, but Werfol was glad of the company. “Not far now,” he whispered to the toad. “It’s bright ahead.”
The path wove between the trees, constantly climbing, its stones level but ringed with lush moss and wet leaves so Werfol had to step carefully or slip. The occasional beam of sunshine did little more than make the shadows darker and he felt further from home than he should, which was silly.
The occasional squirrel startled him, chittering and jumping as he passed their trees. Which was all very well until the squirrels became bigger and bared their yellow teeth at him and hung low to snarl.
He stopped to throw a loose rock at one of those squirrels, but it twitched its tail insolently and snarled louder.
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