Sonata Form

by Carole Cummings

  “If one of the dragons had wandered down to see what we were up to, I would’ve dazzled them with my native charm, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.” Glynn rolled her eyes with a good-natured snort. “Give them a laugh and a grin while they snaffle you down, why don’t you. They’ll have fond memories when they burp you back up.”

  “You’re one to talk. Give your tad a heart attack, you will.” Dilys turned to Milo, wide-eyed. “You’d think that little razorback would’ve been put off people altogether, but no, not when it comes to this one.” She hooked a thumb at Glynn. “Followed her around the pasture like a lost duckling until his mam came and shuffled him off. That one’s got more sense than a fencepost, at least after what almost happened, but the calf—”

  “I just don’t understand it!” Milo’s outburst may have been a bit too strident, because it shut Dilys up. Nothing shut Dilys up. Milo shook his head, at a complete loss. “It’s possible to endear oneself to any sort of wild animal when it’s a baby, I suppose, imprinting and all that. But the mam? It doesn’t make sense. And Cennydd, a witch all this time. I mean, I can understand hiding it. People do it all the time.”

  To avoid the draft in Ceri’s generation. For a lack of trust in cases like Dilys’s mam who didn’t so much hide the talents of the people of Tirryderch, but merely refused to accept any higher authority when it came to what was good for them. And considering what Milo had been hiding all his life, none of it was that unfathomable.

  “But trying to steal a dragon?” Milo threw his hands out. “Why? It isn’t as though Cennydd could keep it for a pet. What had he planned to do with it? And who was that sorcerer? And that gas—what even was that? And how did they manage to weave the magic into it like that? And what was he feeding them?”

  He slumped back, a bit winded, and peered at the other three in turn, blinking back at him with varying expressions, but mostly just as confused as Milo was.

  …Except for Ellis.

  “Young Princes, they call themselves.” Ellis’s tone was rife with derision and ire. “They’re an offshoot of the Purity Party, because of course they are. That boy, that Cennydd”—he spat it—“was recruited several years back because his mam is a known Purity sympathizer, and because Cennydd apparently never shut his gob about how you let him in to see the dragons.” Ellis ran a hand through his hair, clearly annoyed. “His mam won’t admit she knew he has magic, but I’m hearing that his tad—”

  “His mam.” Milo frowned. “Why are they questioning his...? Where is Cennydd?”

  “Personally, I’m still hoping the blackhorn carried him off somewhere to eat him in private.” Glynn wasn’t kidding—her glower was dark and fierce. She shot it up at Milo. “Don’t show him your back—didn’t I say that, Milo? Didn’t I?”

  Milo stared. “I didn’t think—”

  “Yes you did. You thought you could fix everything by being the good person you are. You thought he was only a decent boy who needed the occasional kind word, and there’s everything sorted. You thought he couldn’t possibly be capable of what he tried to do because you know you couldn’t, and you can’t understand that everyone’s not like you, Milo! People have black in their hearts sometimes, they just do, and if you haven’t learned that yet, you’d best get used to having holes blasted in your back, because—because you—”

  It cut off with a near-sob.

  Milo only kept staring. Apologies were necessary somehow, Milo knew they were, but he wasn’t quite sure for what, and even if he knew, he was too thrown to try.

  “All right, there, pet.” Dilys set a firm hand to Glynn’s knee. Squeezed. “My, my, that’s a right fiery bit of temper. I take it back—if a dragon ever tried getting shirty with me, I’d want you there to scold it into submission.”

  It made Glynn laugh, a watery burst that was still part blub, but the smile was real. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Milo, I’m sorry. It’s only—”

  “He knows, cyw.” Dilys lifted her eyebrow at Milo. “And he knows you’re only saying what we’re all thinking anyway.”

  Milo hadn’t, actually. He kept that to himself, because he didn’t know what else to do. Luckily, no one seemed to be expecting anything of him just yet.

  “No one knows where Cennydd is,” Ellis said after a moment. “Or the other man, or whoever was waiting down on the beach for them. The Wardens here took Cennydd’s mam and tad into custody, but the Colonel-in-Chief of the Home Guard apparently stepped in with some convenient orders from Llundaintref, so he’s got them now.”

  “Alton?” Milo narrowed his eyes. “What’s the Home Guard got to do with it?”

  Alton is Colonel-in-Chief of the Home Guard, not some secret spy organization.

  Ceri’s voice, derisive, but.

  But.

  It had been Alton who’d come to see Ceri that day—the day Milo was in retrospect certain she’d decided to leave. It was Alton who’d asked about dragons disappearing. And it was Alton who was so determined not to let Milo ask him about Ceri that his lieutenant wouldn’t even let Milo past the Home Guard’s outer office.

  “He wouldn’t say.” And Ellis was deuced annoyed he couldn’t find out, Milo could tell by the way his jaw clamped tight and his eyes flashed. “But I had a chat with your First Warden. You know her?”

  “Yeah. Eira. She’s a friend of Mam’s. She’s been trying to help figure out who’d been at the wards.”

  “She said, yeah. She also said one of the Wardens had caught Cennydd out there once. But everyone knew he didn’t have—”

  “Everyone knew Cennydd didn’t have magic, so it clearly couldn’t have been him.” Milo had been such a blind idiot. Maybe that was what he was supposed to be apologizing for. He hadn’t been paying attention. He clenched his hands into fists. “Damn it!”

  “And when she mentioned it to you, you told her—”

  “Yes, bloody—” Milo couldn’t help the growl. “I told her he just did that sometimes. That they should put a scare into him and leave it. Yes, Glynn, I know, like a calf, unfortunate in the head—I get it, all right?”

  Glynn put up her hands, all innocence. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “You don’t know how to not say anything.”

  “Hey, just because you’re—”

  “Anyway.” Ellis gave Glynn a quelling roll of his eyes and turned back to Milo. “Eira tells me she’s heard some things. Nothing official, only rumor and scuttlebutt, but word is a man who’s dragonkin came through the immigration office in Llundaintref. A refugee from Colorat with stories about preserves taken over, dragonkin brought down from Taraverde, and dragons gone missing.”

  Dilys sat forward. “How does a dragon go ‘missing’?”

  “And why didn’t she tell me this?” Milo wanted to know.

  “Because she didn’t know until the other night happened and word started to leak back from Llundaintref.” Ellis shrugged. “She says she doesn’t know if it’s connected, and Llundaintref’s not saying. But how could they not be? And that’s not the only reason, and not even the interesting bit.”

  Dilys huffed. “Blood and rot, there’s more?”

  “Always is.” Ellis put out a hand. “The other reason is because she’s been told not to say anything to anyone. Something called the National Secrets Act, if you can believe it. They made her sign a contract and everything. But the most interesting bit is that she got that order—”

  “Alton.” Milo’s teeth clenched. “She got the order from Colonel-in-Chief Alton.”

  Because everything, everything kept coming back to Alton.

  POISON, IT turned out. That was the report from Eira, or at least as much of it as Llundaintref would allow her to tell Milo. Hunks of meat laced with lead, coated with Natur magic, to make the dragons more biddable. And Cennydd had been feeding it to those two dragons right under Milo’s nose. For months.

  Milo had raged when he’d read it. Exhausted himself. Accepted what comfort Ellis could give, but it h
adn’t helped any more than the cup of tea going cold by Milo’s elbow now.

  Tea helped everything.

  “He’ll stay as long as you want him to.”

  Lilibet’s tone was kind, her fingertips gentle as she traced the edges of the burn on Milo’s back. He hadn’t seen it yet, not up to the contortions he’d need to do to stretch his neck in front of a mirror. And anyway, he didn’t actually care. The pain receded every day. By next week, Milo figured he’d be able to resume his duties around the preserve, though perhaps go a bit more lightly than usual. Maybe even pull out his violin without gritting his teeth through a sonata or two.

  “He’ll stay until you convince him to go.”

  It hadn’t really sunk in the first time she’d said it. This time, it pricked at Milo, made him frown.

  “Are you saying I should? Make him go, I mean?”

  Lilibet hummed, finished applying the salve, and stepped back with a soft pat to Milo’s shoulder. “I’m saying he won’t leave until you tell him to. Because that’s what Ellis does. He stays where he’s needed.”

  “And he’s needed in Wellech. More than....”

  More than I need him.

  Milo didn’t know if that was true. He could get along without Ellis if he had to. But he wasn’t about to even try to deny that having Ellis here—right beside Milo, in his house, in his bed—was a balm more important to him right now than salves and teas and blankets and bandages put together. And wasn’t that good enough as far as “need” went?

  Lilibet shrugged and headed to the basin to rinse her hands. “Needs are so personal, randomly skewed by fact and emotion and any number of things, and therefore impossible to quantify one against another.”

  “But you think—”

  “What I think doesn’t matter.”

  “Except clearly you think it does.” Milo pulled his shirt on, feeling abruptly vulnerable in his own kitchen, like a dragon without scales.

  Ellis and Dilys had gone to the forge with Howell to watch him dole out the rations. Glynn was taking advantage of the dragons being elsewhere to unload some fresh hay for nests outside the thermal spring. They were alone, Milo—exhausted and sore and a little bit fuzzy—left to Lilibet’s tender mercy. At the moment, she didn’t seem to be in the mood to spare him much.

  “Do you....” He set his teeth. “Do you not approve?”

  Lilibet’s eyes shot wide. “Of you and Ellis?” She huffed a high little laugh. “Fy ngwas i, that is absolutely the wrong question. You’ve loved each other since you were boys; now you love each other differently, and clearly very deeply. Enough,” she said with a sly glance, “to try to skirt the Sisters’ consent and redefine a contract.” She ignored Milo’s sputter, opened a hand. “So why in the world would you care who might approve and who mightn’t?”

  She raised her eyebrows, expectant, and her gaze was, it seemed, deliberately calm and warm. And that bloody smirk. Ellis took mostly after his tad in looks—same build, same straight nose and strong jaw—but he’d definitely got his coloring and that damnable smirk from Lilibet.

  “I’m… not entirely sure I do.” Milo looked away. “Folant doesn’t. Approve, I mean.”

  “Well, Folant wouldn’t.”

  They left it just lying there, the thud in any conversation in which the subject of Folant arose.

  When the silence grew cloying, Milo said, “Then I don’t understand.”

  Lilibet dried her hands slowly, seemingly taking far too much care, before she sighed and set down the cloth. “You do. Only, you don’t want to. You Priddys are practically made of duty.” It was bitter. “It only depends on what particular strain of it has infected you.” She gave Milo a small, cheerless smile. “You’re very much like your mam in that way, Milo.”

  Again, Milo looked away. His throat was tight. “Do you know…?”

  Where she is? Why she left? Have you Dreamt of her?

  …Is she still alive?

  Lilibet came to sit in the chair across from him. “I promised her, years ago, not too long before you were born, that I would never Dream of her. For her. Never again. And never once for you.”

  That made Milo look up. “Why?”

  “Because she asked it of me.”

  Milo put aside the fact that Lilibet would apparently refuse to Dream for Milo if he asked it—and he might’ve done, if he’d thought of it before now. But even if he had, Lilibet wouldn’t, and all for the sake of Ceri, even though it wasn’t Ceri’s right. It was annoying, but right now not the point.

  “No, I mean, why would anyone ask that at all? If I had a way of making sure the people I love stayed safe and happy, I’d use it.”

  “Would you, though?” Lilibet tilted her head. “Dreams are not life. And life has a way of changing things from one Dream to the next. Every choice you make has infinite alternate choices unraveling from them like skeins of thread. Multiply that by every person around you and all their choices. That’s a lot of thread you can get tangled in by simply trying to touch one strand enough to set it wobbling.

  “If you spent all your time trying to shift life to one side to align with a Dream, you’d one day find yourself merely pretending at the motions of life, fitting them into the shapes the Dream gave you, rather than living it. And if you tried to shift the other way, against a Dream, who’s to say that the moves you make aren’t precisely what would lead to what you were trying to undo?”

  “But you did Dream for her. You said never again.”

  “I did. Long ago. When we were girls and thought it fun and daring. And then when she was off to war, and I couldn’t help wanting to know if I’d ever see her again.” This time Lilibet’s smile was warm and fond. “Imagine my surprise when I Dreamed of you.”

  “…Oh.” Milo blinked. “And what did—?”

  “Ah-ah.” Lilibet wagged her finger, chiding. “Did we not just decide these sorts of questions are not entirely healthy?” She rolled her eyes at Milo’s displeased huff, then seemed to take pity. “Nothing more than that you would exist when she did finally come home.” She sighed. “And that she would need....” There was a clear struggle for a moment, between what Lilibet apparently wanted to say and what she thought she could or should, before she settled on, “That she would need.” She tapped at Milo’s nose. “And we already know that needs are personal.”

  Milo pinched his lips tight to prevent a curse from sliding through them. It was a variation on the same old nonanswer he’d been getting from his mam all his life. Which was why he refused to feel guilty when he asked,

  “Did you ever Dream of my tad?”

  “No.” Too quick. Lilibet seemed to know it, because she shook her head and said, “She was already mourning him when I Dreamed. I only ever saw that she’d loved him.”

  “She won’t ever tell me anything about him. But I’ve always wondered if… I mean, I had the impression…” Milo clenched his jaw, annoyed with himself. “What I mean to say is, I’m pretty sure he was the enemy. And I can’t help thinking… Well, she’s a spy after all, and… I mean. Did she…?”

  Milo had never allowed the question to the surface. Had pretended it would never even occur to him to wonder. But that was back when he’d still been telling himself the Black Dog was a myth that would be somewhat terrifying, though also rather brilliant, if true but clearly couldn’t be. Because people didn’t go off to war and strike terror into the hearts of enemies, and then come home to be mams who nagged their sons to collect the eggs in the morning and to stop pinching Glynn, even if she was an annoying little creadur sometimes.

  Except now Milo was pretty sure people did, or at least Ceri had. And with what his mam had said, way back on that train ride from Wellech—someone who in another life you could’ve loved, get them to trust you while you’re looking for the right place to slide the blade in—well. With something like that still bumbling about in Milo’s head at odd moments, he couldn’t make himself not wonder.

  “Would it change anything if she
had?” Lilibet’s voice was soft, curiosity rather than judgement.

  Milo had thought about this too. “I don’t… think so.”

  It was war. People had to do awful things in war. And spies had to do things Milo couldn’t really imagine. If Milo accepted that Ceri had been a spy—was a spy—then he had to accept that she’d done things that would likely curl his stomach. But it didn’t make her not his mam. It didn’t make her not the woman who’d loved him and taught him and watched him with cautious pride as he grew.

  Lilibet studied him for a moment, dark eyes narrowed, thoughtful, before she sat back with a shrug. “No. I don’t know what might’ve happened if she’d been put to it. I only know he was killed before she had to make the choice. And that she mourned him after.”

  Milo looked down at his clenched hands atop the table, a bit relieved, but other than that, unsure what to feel.

  They were quiet again, Lilibet scrutinizing Milo, and Milo unwilling to say or do anything to provoke what she so clearly meant to say. Because she’d waited for this, for everyone else to be scattered about the place, for Milo to be alone and tired and vulnerable. To make sure she got honest answers, maybe. Or merely to ensure he was past the point where he could just get up and walk away before she’d got what she wanted out of whatever this was.

  Maybe Lilibet got tired of waiting. “You understand that war is coming.” So bald. And yet so tender.

  “You don’t need Dreams to know that.”

  “No,” Lilibet said softly. “Maybe we only need to know ourselves. And each other.” She paused, perhaps waiting for Milo to look her in the eye, but he didn’t. “I know you, Milo. I don’t have to Dream of you to know what you’ve been debating in the back of your mind, while pretending even to yourself you’re doing no such thing. Because I know your mam, and I know what she’d do. What she did do. And you’re far more like her than you sometimes like to think. Duty, you know.” She tapped at the table until Milo finally looked up and met her gaze. “Which is why I’m telling you—he’ll go where he believes he’s most needed, and there he’ll stay.” She paused, one eyebrow raised and mouth turned down in an unhappy frown. “Or follow.” She looked away, looked down. “Right now I reckon your need and Wellech’s are about even. But Wellech when Preidyn’s at war?”