Sonata Form

by Carole Cummings

  Ellis would admit it gave him ideas his tad would never approve of, but Ellis could likely take the Wellech position of Pennaeth from Folant any time he chose. He just hadn’t chosen to yet. But if he did, and if Milo—

  No. Milo couldn’t. Probably wouldn’t. The dragons meant too much to him, and anyway, it wasn’t as though Kymbrygh was enjoying a surplus of dragonkin.

  It still stung, though, made Ellis by turns angry and impatient and sad and frustrated. He wasn’t used to feeling at a loss when there was a problem to be solved. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair, and the dragonstone in his pocket was lovely but not enough. He calmed himself by setting his hand over Milo’s on the couch cushion beside him. Milo didn’t turn to him, unusually quiet but paying very close attention to the conversation, looking sad one second and tamping the next. But he spread his fingers until Ellis threaded his own between them, and curled them tight.

  They’d retired to Nia’s… well, Ellis wanted to call it a study because of the giant walnut desk in front of the windows, but it was more of a parlor with its four couches and enormous cabinet dedicated solely to an overly generous variety of potables. Ellis was sticking with the apple ale they’d had at supper. Milo’d had a glass of single malt in his hand for over an hour now, but Ellis had yet to see him take a drink from it.

  “Well, everyone has to do their duty as they see it, don’t they?”

  The question from Dilys didn’t seem terribly shocking or provocative, but it still, for whatever reason, made Milo stiffen beside Ellis. A quick flick of Milo’s gaze toward Lilibet then away had Ellis frowning, bemused, and paying attention again.

  “You can’t fault anyone who wants to serve their country,” Dilys went on. “Watching out for Tirryderch’s magical folk doesn’t mean you can dictate whether or not they enlist.”

  “The council doesn’t dictate, for pity’s sake.” Terrwyn rolled his eyes. “We merely discourage our citizens—all our citizens—from signing any contract before they’re made aware of all possible repercussions. That’s not dictating—it’s being responsible, and caring about those who’ve elected us to look after their interests.”

  “And yet most of the ones who’ve come to you with a request to endorse their contract application walk away with a much dimmer view of Her Majesty’s Royal Forces. And we barely have enough in the Home Guard to justify a Tirryderch division.” Dilys lifted her eyebrows, practically daring Terrwyn to deny it; when he didn’t, Dilys put out a hand. “You don’t want your people in danger. All right. It’s a mark of your kind heart and your care for Tirryderch. But you’ve also a duty to Kymbrygh in general, and a time is coming when—”

  “Could it not be said,” Nia cut in, “that by doing our duty—how we see it—to our magical folk, we are, in turn, doing our duty to Kymbrygh?” She shrugged. “Tirryderch is more or less the granary for the Preidynīg Isles. We need our Natur witches to monitor the crops for blight or infestation, our Elfennol sorcerers to find water in times of drought, our Dewin mages for power and protection, and just generally adding skill where necessary. Who would it serve if all those folk went off to war and our crops failed? Tirryderch could no longer provide grain to the rest of Preidyn. We couldn’t provide the excess we trade with the rest of the world, and therefore put taxes in the Queen’s coffers so she can pay for a war we have no say in waging.”

  “And were the council and our Pennaeth to assist such an exodus,” Steffan put in, “if Tirryderch were to encourage its magical folk to heed the Queen’s call to enlist, Tirryderch would then lose its ability to lend more practical support. We couldn’t feed ourselves, let alone provide for the troops we send to war the goddesses know where.”

  “That’s not… ehm.” Ellis tried not wince, since everyone was looking at him now; it was somewhat difficult, because he hadn’t really meant to speak up in the first place. He cleared his throat. “Only, you’re talking as though you couldn’t get along without magical folk, and Wellech—regardless of how misguided and dogmatic its Pennaeth’s policies—has rather proven that untrue.”

  Terrwyn set a skeptical gaze on Ellis, complete with raised eyebrows. So did Milo.

  Steffan was clearly trying not to snort. “Has it, though?”

  “Well, I mean.” Ellis sat forward. “I’m not actually defending my tad, because there really isn’t a good defense, and I’ve no interest in trying to find one.” He shot a look at Lilibet, who was smirking at him from her chair by the fireplace. Ellis gave her a glare back. “And I’m not denying that Wellech could be doing much better for itself if its policies on magic weren’t so strict. Believe me, that’s a fight I’m still in up to my neck, and one I intend to win.” He couldn’t help the glance sideways at Milo, but Milo was frowning down into his drink. “I’m only saying that Wellech does manage to feed itself without magic as an integral part of its production, and I imagine Tirryderch could do too, should it ever have a need.”

  “Wellech manages to feed itself,” Terrwyn put in. “And yes, I’ve no doubt Tirryderch could do, as you say. Though that’s a question we won’t need answered for quite some time, thanks in no small part to the influx of magical folk from Wellech over the past two decades.” He waited, daring Ellis to disagree, but when Ellis didn’t, Terrwyn went on, “Nia’s point is that the extraordinary volume of our output is dependent on magic, and Preidyn is dependent on that output. Steffan’s point is that Preidyn is, therefore, dependent on our magical folk right where they are, and isn’t it thus our duty to do what we can to keep them here?”

  “But you’re arguing a fallacy, Tad.” Dilys had the exasperated attitude of one who’d had this discussion before. Many times. “You say that as though Tirryderch has no need of defense for itself and no obligation to contribute to Preidyn’s should the call get more strident. I’m not saying any of you are wrong in protecting the citizenry—I’m saying you’re only protecting us from our own government without conceding that a threat to Preidyn is a threat to Tirryderch, and you’re hugging the very edge of the law by doing it. If this enlistment drive turns into a draft, you’ll be breaking it.”

  “Unjust laws need breaking, or at least a good solid challenge. Especially ones that put undue and unfair onus on magical folk to die in wars we didn’t want started in the first place. How many died in the last one? It’ll take generations to replace the witches and sorcerers Tirryderch alone lost, and our mages have always been too thin on the ground.” Terrwyn skimmed a quick look at Milo, as though expecting him to start doing his part to replenish Kymbrygh’s stock of mages right this minute. “What good will it do our magical folk to defend a country that doesn’t seem to care if we go extinct in the doing?”

  “Well, it’ll keep you out of prison for a start!” Dilys snapped, angry, before she pulled in a calming breath and sat back with a huff. She scrubbed at her face, shoulders slumping. “I just don’t want to see the three of you end up arrested. It’d make those Gray Party knobs too smug to bear, and then I’d have to punch them all in the face and get myself arrested, and where would it end?”

  It burst the bubble of tension that had been building, gave everyone a good chuckle and reset the temperature to something less smothering.

  Until Milo asked, quiet, “So you don’t agree that sometimes one’s duty ought to go beyond one’s own dooryard?”

  He wasn’t looking at anyone, still staring down into his untouched drink, apart somehow, even with his hand still in Ellis’s, and reserved like Ellis had never seen him. Waiting for an answer.

  “Oh, save me,” Dilys said, grin tweaking at the corners of her mouth, but eyes wide and uncertain. “You’re not thinking of enlisting, are you?”

  It seemed to startle Milo. He jerked his head up, shot a surprised frown at Dilys, and stammered out a “Wh… what?” before he huffed and finally took a drink from his glass—all of it in one go. He coughed, the burn of the whisky clearly more than he’d been expecting, so when it became evident he couldn’t answer, Ellis did it fo
r him.

  “He couldn’t even if he wanted to.” Ellis freed up his hand and absently patted Milo’s back. When Milo made a grab for Ellis’s ale, Ellis handed it over and said, “Her Majesty is rather stingy with her dragonkin.” He couldn’t help how his lip curled a little as he said it, thinking of a cariad contract application still sitting unfinished somewhere on his desk back in Wellech; he tried to cover it with a shrug. “The Home Guard slapped him with an exemption before he’d even got through the application process, so I doubt the Royal Services would do different.”

  “All the better.” Nia took Milo’s empty glass and got up to refill it. “And it’s his good luck he didn’t inherit everything from our poor Ceri.”

  “Nia!”

  It was the first word Lilibet had spoken since they’d sat down, her voice so loud and so sharp, it startled everyone. Nia nearly dropped the whisky decanter. Lilibet merely sent her a glare then a significant look at Milo, done coughing now, but bent over his knees and breathing deeply. He didn’t look up.

  Lilibet raised her eyebrows. “I’m sure Milo would appreciate it if you didn’t speak of his mam as though—”

  “I’m speaking of my friend as though her duty is well past done.” Nia brought Milo’s drink to him, gave him a sympathetic smile when he took it, and ran her fingers briskly through his hair before she sat down, aiming a level look at Lilibet. “Ceri answered her country’s call. More than once. She did her duty as she saw it. And where is she now? We’re all supposed to pretend we don’t know she’s been pulled back in, that we’re not worrying about her every day, as though we’re dense or just don’t care. It’s rot!” Her green eyes flashed with anger. “So you’ll forgive me if I refuse to pretend I’m not pleased we won’t have to one day do the same for Milo.” Her shoulders sagged, and she sent Milo a soft look. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, pet.”

  “Ta, Nia.” A murmur, once again into the whisky glass. Ellis could actually see Milo setting his teeth and making the decision to don a brave smile. “She’ll be fine. She always is.” He took a drink—a sip this time, though it looked to Ellis as though Milo would really like to toss this one back too.

  Abruptly melancholic on Milo’s behalf, Ellis slid his arm around Milo’s shoulders and pulled him as close as propriety allowed. “She will be, you know.” Quiet, and only for Milo. Milo’s smile when he gave Ellis a glance was still a bit forlorn but grateful too.

  “Preidyn cultivates her magical folk,” Steffan said, husky and with a contemplative look into the fire. He shook his head, lips pursed. “She smiles when she births them, raises them up and gives them good schools to teach them, good laws to protect them. She gives them everything they need to meet their promise. To be the very best they can be.” He pulled his gaze from the fire, somber, sent it to everyone in the room, one by one, before settling it on Milo. “And then, when she needs them to die for her, they do it willingly. Because she’s made them believe she’s a loving mother, grief-stricken but still in need of their willing sacrifice, when really she’s merely a butcher, eyeing her shepherds’ flocks for the—”

  “Bloody—Steffan!” Dilys. Shocked. And livid. Apparently on Milo’s behalf if the look of furious apology she was shooting him was any clue. She glared at Steffan. “Why would you even say something like—?”

  “Because it’s true, cyw.” Nia’s tone was firm. “Putting flowers on a cairn doesn’t make it less a cairn.”

  “Could we,” Milo said slowly, tone harsher than Ellis had ever heard it, “possibly not discuss my mam in terms of butchers and cairns?” He shot a hard look all around, set his glass down. “You have your views on duty. I understand. I don’t even disagree. But I won’t have you judging my mam’s views of it simply because—”

  Terrwyn harrumphed. “We’re not judging any—”

  “—simply because,” Milo said, louder, “she chooses to do her duty as she believes necessary.” His chin was quivering. “They’re killing people like me. Like her. A ferry ride away from Preidyn, they’re killing people.”

  “Milo.” Nia shook her head, mouth turned down in a disbelieving scowl. “You can’t know what—-”

  “Except I do know. I know. And, apparently, at least a few of my neighbors, people I’ve known all my life, think it’s all perfectly—”

  He choked, gave his head a violent shake, then gritted his teeth. “You don’t know—you don’t know why she—” He shrugged Ellis’s hand off his shoulder and stood. “You don’t know. Maybe she thinks whatever needs doing is bigger than just her. Maybe she knows things you don’t, things that convinced her she had no choice. Maybe she believes she’s the only one who can do whatever it is she left to do. You don’t know, and I’d appreciate it very sincerely if you wouldn’t decide that ‘our poor Ceri’ is wasting her life on something you apparently think isn’t worth it, when to her, it’s clearly worth everything!”

  He was breathing too heavily into the hush that descended on the room with a reverberating thud. Shaking a bit too. Clearly at a loss as to what to do now that he’d said his piece and stunned everyone around him into the breathtakingly uncomfortable silence. That was it, it seemed, all Milo had, and now…?

  Ellis felt like a side character in a school play, filling up a space but ultimately useless. He didn’t know what to do, when Milo plainly needed someone to do something.

  Terrwyn was looking at the fire again, jaw set, clearly still convinced he had the right of it, but unwilling to continue pushing his point. Nia looked thoughtful, eyes on Milo, concerned though not dissuaded. Lilibet just sipped her wine, cool and unmoved and no help at all, while Steffan merely sat beside Nia, shaking his head as though disappointed in everyone. Dilys was the only one halfway useful, boring holes into Ellis’s forehead and widening her eyes with a purposeful tilt of her head at Milo.

  Do something.

  So Ellis… did. He stood, set a hand to the small of Milo’s back, and gave him a nudge. Said, “Well, then. Ta for supper. Could’ve done without the entertainment, though,” and shot the room a grin that was nothing but bared teeth.

  Lilibet rolled her eyes, mouth flat, chiding—Ellis could almost hear the exasperated Manners, boy! but ignored her. Kept nudging until Milo finally moved, nearly stumbling as Ellis led him from the room and pushed him up the hall. And up another hall. And… down another, and…

  Ellis should say something. Offer some kind of comfort. He knew how badly Milo had been taking Ceri’s absence, and Terrwyn and Nia and Steffan had done nothing just now but make it worse. And all right, Ellis could see their point—Ceri was a lifelong friend to them, they were clearly worried about her, and no one could deny she’d done more than her share. Whatever the circumstances behind her leaving, it truly wasn’t fair.

  He’d never say it out loud to Milo, but Ellis was just as happy that the Queen was stingy with her dragonkin. And, though he knew very well how hiding his Sight had always chafed at Milo, Ellis was grateful beyond sense that no one but a trusted few knew about it. It would be a difficult choice for the Queen’s Council, he reckoned, deciding if it was more important to keep a rarity that was dragonkin tending to dragons, or to send another even rarer rarity that was a Dewin Seer into whatever hole Ceri had disappeared into. Except Ellis was pretty sure he knew on which side that debate would land. And he couldn’t help the relief at knowing it wouldn’t happen.

  Selfish, yes, no question. Because he couldn’t imagine the absolute agony of being the one left behind. Not if the one leaving him was Milo.

  “Ehm.” Milo slowed, squinting around as though he’d just woken up. He frowned. “Where are we going?”

  Ellis stopped, turned to Milo, and shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I don’t even know whose wing we’re in.” He looked behind them, then ahead. “I’ve been lost for at least six hallways now. What kind of house even is this? Is there no end to the thing?”

  Milo stared. Blinked. “You…” He stared some more, then… snorted. Blinked again. Surprised. S
eemingly at himself. The corners of his mouth were twitching. “We’re… lost.”

  Ellis looked around again, just to be sure. He nodded. “Seems like it.”

  “You got us lost.”

  “I mean, you’d think there’d be one of those maps on at least one of the walls, yeah? Like at a railway station. With a helpful arrow and all. You Are Here.”

  “Lost. In Ty Mynydd.”

  “And me with no breadcrumbs.”

  Milo laughed, one of those bright bursts that turned his eyes into crescent moons. It was an unexpected surge of sunlight on an overcast day, and just as quickly gone. Milo looked away. Pained.

  “I’m sorry for…” He lofted a directionless wave. “I’ve gone and made everything awkward now, and you’ve only just got here.”

  “Pfft.” Ellis snagged up Milo’s hand. “Life lesson, boyo: it’s only awkward if one acknowledges awkwardness. If one, however, chooses to bully one’s way through it with oblivious smiles and crass commentary, it turns into entertainment.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Ah, I see.” Milo’s mouth turned up and his gaze went sly. “I begin to understand Wellech’s obsession with its favored son.”

  “I should hope so.” Ellis squeezed Milo’s hand, pulled him closer. “Otherwise, there’s more than two years’ concerted effort to sway you to my charms gone wasted.”

  Milo’s smile now was soft, though his eyes had turned… sad, maybe, and his voice was thready when he said, “Never that,” and set a light kiss to Ellis’s mouth.

  There was something there, something just beneath Milo’s surface that Ellis couldn’t quite get hold of. As though the mess with that Cennydd git had punched a hole in Milo’s spirit rather than his back, and the physical healing hadn’t taken hold on the emotional end. And Milo was trying so hard to patch it every five seconds Ellis didn’t have the heart to call him on it.