Dragon Heart

by Cecelia Holland

  With the sun halfway to the top of the sky, he rode up on two skiffs drawn onto the sand. The fishermen camped in the shelter of the cliff welcomed him for his red hair, glad to give him shelter and food. They had a brew with them, which made his head spin. When he asked about the new fort, they laughed, cheerful.

  “Ah! We did that!”

  Jeon sat straight up, startled. The man before him, one of a blurry cloud of faces, beamed at him. “We did it! The soldiers—they beat up Benes, and grabbed two of the women—so we prayed, and God sent us help.”

  Jeon grunted at him, almost relieved. “God didn’t send any help anywhere else?”

  They all shrugged, their eyes elsewhere. The jug came around again, fiery and sweet. He only took a sip of it, warned of the effects.

  In the morning, when he saddled his horse, a young man came swiftly up to him.

  “East,” he said. “They’re bad people, too.” He thrust bread and a little jug into Jeon’s hand, turned on his heel, and walked away.

  * * *

  So he went on toward the headland looming in the distance. Fresh from the rain, streams came down into the sea, carving trenches through the sand, and the horse balked at crossing and Jeon got off and led it by the bridle. Once he had to ride far inland to find a place to cross. He began thinking he could turn back soon, that he had seen enough. Thinking so carried his mind, again, to Castle Ocean, where Oto and Broga would be waiting to kill him. He thought of Luka’s shredded body and his gut tightened.

  Maybe he was just a coward. Maybe he was making all this up, an excuse not to do what he should do.

  Then on the beach ahead of him something was sticking up out of the sand, a raw, blackened arc.

  This was the broken keel of a ship, half-burnt, lodged in the tidal wrack. He looked all around, seeing no sign of people, and then his memory jogged and he recognized this place. A narrow little stream came down through a gorge here, with a grassland just above the beach. He thought there should have been huts on the grassland, but there weren’t. Inland, though, he knew there was a tree. This was where he had found Tirza, with the people getting ready to burn her.

  He rode up toward the little meadow, the dead grass laid over like a brown blanket. Now he could make out shapes under the grass, a sunken fire pit, and an overgrown heap of something. His hair stood on end. He thought, if he kicked that open, it would be all burnt. He would find bones.

  “Hey!”

  He jumped, his hand flying toward the dagger in his belt. On the bank of the little stream a naked man was watching him.

  “Hey! Leave them alone!”

  “Leave who alone?” he said, and cleared his throat. The man was thin as a fishbone, his hair and beard ragged, his body bruised and scratched.

  “Them that was there.” The man began to sway back and forth on his widespread horny feet. “They was there, once. Leave ’em alone.”

  “What happened?”

  “The devil came out of the sea.” The man swaying, his eyes wild. “I saw it. I saw it.”

  “The devil.” Jeon went closer. “What did he look like?”

  “The devil. The terrible serpent, red as the fires of hell.” The man moaned.

  Jeon stood beside him, put a hand on him, and the man jumped. Jeon said, “I have some bread. Tell me what you saw. One man? Two? A dozen? What kind of ship?”

  “The devil! I’m telling you—no man—give me something to eat.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “I hid. Feed me.”

  Jeon gave him bread, but he got no more sense out of him. The old man curled up in the sand and slept, twitched and cried in his sleep. Jeon went up the little stream and came to the tree where Tirza had tried to hide.

  He sat there at the foot of the tree, trying to piece this together. Somehow this all fit together, these attacks: the burning of Santomalo, the new fort, this place. Something tugged at his memory, whatever had happened when he and Tirza were shipwrecked. He wondered if those ships had burnt.

  He thought, In all these places, Tirza was there, before they were attacked. The other places he had passed, other people, when Tirza had not been there they had seen nothing.

  He thought then of the little green stone he had found and took it from his wallet. It felt warm in his hand. He turned it over in his fingers. The dark was coming. He should build a fire, eat something. His mind roiled, something struggling to form into an idea. All he could remember of the shipwreck was the monstrous seas, the horrible flashes of light.

  That had not been pirates. Maybe it hadn’t even been a storm.

  Tirza knew. He remembered how upset she had become when he spoke of it. He had taken for granted then that it was just that she had suffered from it.

  Now he saw something else in her distress. As if he was getting something wrong.

  He rolled the green stone in his fingers. Now, at last, he had to decide what to do. He could ride away forever, keep on into the east, go on and on until his red hair made no difference. Or he could go back and try to make himself King.

  He could not think how to do that. He had none of Luka’s Kingcraft; he had no followers. He saw a dozen ways he could fail and die.

  After a moment, he put the green stone back into his wallet and looked up into the branches above him, where Tirza had sheltered. He had saved her, then, when no one thought he could. Without thinking, he stood up, dusted his hands off, and rode back down the stream to the beach. There was no sign of the madman. He turned west, back toward Castle Ocean.

  14

  “No,” Oto said. “You are Queen, a member of the Imperial Family now, and you must display yourself with the proper decorum. Obey me.”

  Mervaly glared at him, her hands clenched at her sides. The soldiers who had brought her and Oto’s breakfast retreated to the door, their eyes downcast. She said, “My lord, I only want to care for my birds. I mean no disobedience.” What she wanted was to pick up the ewer and smash it over his head.

  He said, “And you must stop speaking up in council.”

  “Ah,” she said, and paced two steps toward him, her back tingling. “That I will not do. I am Queen, as you said. I will have my rule here.”

  “You’ll do as I say!”

  “I’ll do as I see proper,” she said, and he lifted his hand and slapped her.

  “Respect me!”

  Her head had rocked under the blow; she straightened, coiled, and cocked her arm to hit him back, but then Broga came in. Outnumbered, she backed away, cooling down.

  The King’s brother stalked across the room, his coat disarranged, his hands dusty. His habitual look of scorn was on his face. He said, “The patrol we sent off yesterday to the south? Has not come back. That’s two more men gone.”

  Oto sat down on the chair at the table. “Are they yet overdue? We may wait another day.”

  Mervaly stood back by the window, watching them. Broga, she knew, was more dangerous than Oto.

  Broga said, “When will you waken to this? We are bleeding away our strength.” His gaze shifted toward her. “They”—he laid weight on the word, staring at her—“are attacking us, and you, you fool, do nothing.”

  Oto glanced over his shoulder at her. His fingers tapped on his knee. “When the fleet comes we will have the men necessary to secure all the country. Until then—”

  “The fleet!” Broga threw his hands up. “You talk of the fleet as if it were on our doorstep—it’s been overdue for months.” He cast a wicked glance at Mervaly. “And you should not speak of such things in front of spies.”

  “My lord, you overreach,” Oto said. He leaned back and took her by the arm. She resisted the pull, but he wrenched her up by his side, and then clutching her hand, he brought her fingers to his cheek. “My beloved Queen is not a spy.” He licked her wrist and she wrenched violently out of his grip.

  Broga paced across the room. “They are all spies. They are plotting against us, all of them—the townspeople—all. We should never have let
the boy go.” He turned, brisk. “We should go after him, drag him back, find out what he knows.”

  “My lord,” Mervaly said, “my brother knows nothing. There is nothing to know. I pray you, leave him alone.”

  Oto got her arm into his grasp again, and dragged her against him, groping at her with his fingers. But all his attention was turned on Broga. “I am the King, and will dispose. You will obey me, and my Queen—” He crushed her against him, smirking at Broga.

  Broga stared at them a moment, his nostrils flared and his face harsh with contempt. Finally he said, “Just keep her away from the rest of them. We have to find out what’s going on. Make her tell you.”

  Oto said, “Go. You must have important work to do.”

  Rigid with bad temper, Broga was silent a moment longer, and then he turned on his heel and walked out. Mervaly slipped from Oto’s loosening grasp and went to the window. Slumping down in the chair, Oto seemed to shrink into himself, relieved.

  He turned to his breakfast. “Mind me. You heard how he regards your brother.”

  She said, “Surely an honorable man of the most noble blood would not harm a child?”

  Oto pulled a bright, false smile over his face. “Not if I restrain him.” He gestured toward the table. “Be sweet, Wife. Come and cut my bread.”

  Truce, then. Time to think. She went to the table, and attended him.

  * * *

  Grunting, soaked with sweat, Dawd heaved his end of the hod up the last step onto the landing. Marwin said, breathless, “Help me.” Dawd went down and together they lifted the whole stack of stones up onto the flat. He straightened and wiped his face on the tail of his shirt. He had left his doublet and breastplate off when he got up that morning, knowing what was to come. With so many soldiers gone and no servants, they had to do this kind of work all day, and the uniform got in the way.

  Marwin slacked against the wall. Stone dust smeared his face. He said, “Are we supposed to make this without mortar?”

  Dawd looked around at the doorway they were supposed to seal. The square-cut stones they had just brought up were flat and even, and he thought they could set the stones dry. After that, maybe, plaster the whole thing. He faced front again, hearing feet on the stair from the top room of the tower, and Broga came rapidly down into sight, a guard behind him.

  “Where is the priest? I’ll drown him in his own holy water.” The Archduke stopped on the landing, looking around. “Good; that seems like enough stone. Keep on.” He went on down the steps, the guard following after.

  “Now the priest is gone,” Dawd said. He chose a stone and laid it into the doorway. He tried to keep from looking into the room beyond. It was dark, anyway, and the great lump of black stone filled it almost entirely. He stacked the stones carefully, lapping the chinks, like a puzzle he could put together. Bending over the hod, he sorted through the remaining stones for ones that fit best into the next row. “It’s bad when we can’t even hold the priests.”

  “Likely he’s down in Undercastle,” Marwin said. “How many men do we have left?”

  Dawd had just counted; he said, “Nineteen.”

  Marwin jerked a little, all over. “Well, well.”

  “I want to bring them all in to camp in the gate yard. Inside the wall. No more patrols,” Dawd said. “Double guards at night.”

  “Keep somebody out?” Marwin said. “Or keep them in?”

  Dawd said, “You’d better get busy, or—”

  Marwin knelt down and began laying stone. More steps sounded on the stair, this time Oto, who swung down onto the landing with several soldiers around him, all in their uniforms, their helmets on their heads, their pikes in their hands. Dawd and Marwin snapped up straight, at attention, saluting. The King looked them quickly over, and then at the chapel door.

  “What is this, now?” He wore a long, fine cloak with a fur hem, which he swung up over his arm. He laughed. “Well. The works of men.” He went away down the stair with his guards.

  Marwin stood back, dusting his hands off. “Tomorrow he’ll order it all torn down again.”

  Dawd slid a stone into place in the doorway. He agreed with Marwin but did not say so. Dawd understood why the men were deserting. Although likely Marwin was right and they had just drifted down into the town. It was a long march home. Dawd’s eyes stung with sweat and he swiped his forearm over his face and for a moment could not see. Then more footsteps pattered on the stair above.

  This was the Queen, Mervaly, in slippers, holding up the hem of her gown with one hand. Her long, curly hair floated behind her. The two Imperials straightened, at attention, but she went softly by them without speaking. Dawd watched her go, faced the wall again, and pushed the last flat stone into place.

  * * *

  “It’s all ritual,” the little easterner said. “The heart of the Empire is ritual, and I do the rituals. Did.” He nodded, or his head bobbed uncontrollably; Amillee could not tell. He was very drunk. She had only seen him before in his long pale robe and she had not recognized him when he first came into the brewery and insisted on sitting inside, away from the crowd.

  “It doesn’t work here,” the little man said. “Nothing makes sense here.” He gulped. He was going to be sick. Amillee went for the basin. He retched awhile, but nothing much came up, and he finally curled his arms on the table under his head and fell asleep. She took the basin off to the garbage.

  Coming back into the room, she met her mother, hauling out a tray of cups. Lumilla said, “We have other custom, you know.” She slapped the purse on her belt. More of the people were paying now in Imperial money, and Lumilla was very fond of it.

  Amillee looked down the room toward the priest. “He’s interesting. He grew up in the Holy City.”

  Lumilla harrumphed. “Well, this is Undercastle, where we are now standing, and trying to live. Take the pitcher out to the porch. What is going on in your head? Since the King died you never have both feet on the ground at the same time.”

  Amillee burst out, “What’s there for me? To marry some poor lout—” Abruptly the whole emptiness appeared before her, the dull days of the rest of her life. “There must be more. I want more.”

  Lumilla shoved her. “Stop whining. Do your work; let that be enough.”

  “How can that be enough?” Amillee cried. “How can that ever be enough?” She stormed off out of the room, up the back stair, to get away from all this.

  * * *

  Jeon came home before dawn, put his horse up in the stable without waking anyone, and found a passage there that went into the castle. He followed the narrow way up through the dark walls, one hand on the stone, which warmed at his touch. The passage crossed into the big burial chamber, and on the threshold he bowed before he went in. All around him in the silence and darkness he felt them watching him. He felt their charge upon him. At the far threshold he turned and bowed again, and went up.

  In the hall, where the dawn light shone out beyond the terrace, a man wearing only the bottom half of a uniform was sweeping up. His doublet was a black and white heap by the far wall. He hardly glanced at Jeon; none of the Imperials thought much of him. He went back out to the antechamber and up the right-hand stair to his sisters’ room.

  There Casea was feeding the birds from a tray of seeds and fruit and bits of mice. When she saw him she dropped the tray onto the floor and rushed to meet him. “I’m so glad you’re back.” She began to cry, and he put his arms around her.

  “Where is Tirza?”

  “She is … out. On the Jawbone, likely. Mervaly—” Casea stepped back, her hands in his, and looked into his eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Mervaly has married Oto.”

  “What?” He hurled himself away, turned around in the middle of the room, and faced her again. “What? Why?”

  “I guess we are all a little mad, Jeon. She thinks she is protecting us. You and me, that is, since we must pretend that Tirza is dead.” She wiped her eyes, which kept on leaking.

  “Tirza de
ad?”

  “No, no, she’s lively as ever. Oto just thinks she is dead and so we must—he ordered her dead; it’s a long story. What happened? Where did you go?”

  “Up the coast.” He did not want to tell her what he had learned, or what he was thinking. Instead he snarled, “Mervaly. She married him, and he is still alive?”

  “Yes.” Casea’s voice went ragged. “He thinks he’s King.”

  “What are you doing?” He gave her a suspicious look. She shrugged one shoulder. He thought, She is up to something. She too. With a grunt he went down the stair and into the hall.

  The sea glittered, out there through the gap. He sat down at the table, in the place to the left of the high seat, and sat staring at his hands, lying on the table before him in the clear morning light, thinking about what to do next.

  Broga came in, trailing one of his men, and crossed the room straight toward Jeon and said, “I sit there, boy.”

  Jeon gave him a long look, rose, and went on down to the end of the table. As he was settling himself again, there was a bustle in the doorway. Two soldiers marched in, swung to stand on either side of the door, saluted, and shouted, “Glory to the Empire!”

  Oto walked down between them, with Mervaly beside him, holding his hand.

  The muscles of Jeon’s forearm twitched, as if he drove in a blade. He turned his head and looked toward the sun glistening on the sea, running wild all the way to the horizon.

  With ceremony Oto and Mervaly came to the high seat and sat down together. Servants brought warmed spiced wine and fruit and bread. Jeon, through the corner of his eye, saw Oto turn to kiss his sister, paddling with his fingers in her neck, and Mervaly allowing this. Jeon took a chunk of the bread to calm his hands. In his mind he saw them locked together, naked, thrashing together, and his stomach turned.