He kept his gaze on the sea. He told himself, They think nothing of you. That helps.
Oto said, “Prince Jeon, now my brother. Welcome home.”
He said, “I am happily home, my lord.” He gave Oto a wide, empty look. Over the Archduke’s shoulder Mervaly glanced at Jeon, and their looks crossed and he ripped the piece of bread in half.
“You went east along the coast? What did you find out?”
Now he could craft this. He said, “Somebody has been attacking along the coast. Pirates, likely slavers, they come in, burn everything, and take off everybody they don’t kill.”
“What did you find at the new fort?”
Jeon began eating the bread. “It’s demolished, as your sergeant said. There were only a dozen graves. That means the rest left with the pirates.”
“Where are they coming from?”
“Likely from the north seas. Another part of the world out of reach of your Emperor.”
Oto said, “Keep your tongue polite, boy, or I’ll twist it out of your head. You found other places they attacked?”
“A village, north of the new fort. On toward Santomalo, a cove full of wrecked ships.” Looking at Oto, he could not help looking at Mervaly, and he blurted out, “I see you’ve found your place in this.”
Unruffled, unsmiling, Mervaly said, “Someone had to act. Luka was gone. You ran away.”
Oto gave a grunt of a laugh. Sitting on the high seat, he seemed different, his knees clutched, his head settled into his shoulders, his coat open: not the tidy courtier of old. He rubbed Mervaly’s arm, and said, “You’ve proven useful to us, Prince Jeon. Keep on so, and you will prosper.”
Jeon took his eyes from his sister, and lowered his head. “I am pleased to serve,” he said. He put another piece of bread into his mouth.
* * *
Casea had run out of her favorite bright yellow thread, and she went down to the weavery, to get more. The woman behind the counter went to look, and came back shaking her head. “No, that’s all gone. I have only a dark purple, and a very pretty lilac.”
Casea had brought her work with her, as always. She had not looked at it as a piece in a long while; she had been rolling the finished part up to keep it out of the way, and giving herself over to the fresh new cloth. Now she spread the last several feet of it out on the counter. She was surprised how long it was; when she got to the end of the counter, she still had the roll in her hand, feeling as thick and heavy as ever.
She went along the piece she had spread out on the flat countertop, stroking it with her hands, seeing the colors in their stitches and knots, swirls, satiny fills, intertwinings, and endings. Here was the dark red she had loved so much, wound with a thick black silk spangled in gold, and here she had run out of the red and the black silk had gone on alone, filled and tangled with the sun-bright yellow, the blue, the green, and the purple. And now the black silk had slipped away, and the yellow was gone also, and the other colors ran on in waves.
She saw what she had done, and coming to the unfinished edge, she looked on it with her eyes clear. She knew what she had in her basket, only a little blue left, only a few strands of the green. She looked up to see the weaver woman coming back, carrying a carved wooden box.
“Here is all I have,” she said, and set the box on the table. “The ship from the south has not been here in a while; that’s where I get most of these pretties.”
The box was full of hanks of thread, some wool, some hemp, and some silk, but there was no yellow. No blue, either, and no green, only a dark purple and a lighter purple, lying there side by side.
Casea rolled up her work. Her fingertips felt frozen, as if she were touching death.
“There’s this,” the weaver woman said, and took another twist of thread from the box. “But it doesn’t really match.”
Casea said slowly, “Let me see.”
She took the hank of hempen thread, which was a common brown, but heavy in her hands, and with a surprising feel: strong and smooth, like silk. She said, “I know what this is. I will take this.”
“There will be more soon, maybe, though,” the weaver woman said. “There’s ships coming, I’ve heard.”
“From the south?”
“No,” the woman said, and waved east. “From east of Santomalo. From the Empire.”
* * *
Tirza dreamed, and in the dream she was the dragon. Or at least she was in his mind, looking out through the great red eyes, the sea vivid around her with his long, deep sight.
He was swimming south, past the sunken mountains of an older time, trailing a school of fish that stretched more than a mile through the cold streaming current. The sea was green and blue, constantly murmuring in its water voice, underneath the songs of dolphins and whales, the low conversations of the fish. She was cradled in the space behind his eyes; she could do nothing, but he could not see her there, or harm her, and so she waited.
Under him the seabed was rising, and the sunlight reached down into the water and touched him with its warmth. Then, ahead, there lay a clutter of floating trees.
Tucked behind his eyes, she felt his sudden rage, she felt them as invaders, the sense so strong she wrapped her arms tight around herself as if she would be blasted away. And under the fury, she knew that, in spite of being wood, the floating trees were packed with meat.
Her muscles gathered. The sun was rising, the tide running in, when he liked best to come near the land. The ships were tethered down, and rocked at the ends of their ropes. He went in among them and reared up beside the largest.
On the flat wooden surface a lone man gaped up at him, stunned, and the dragon blasted the ship with the firestream of his breath. The man leapt for the cool sea, and the dragon swung around to snap him up, and then the burning ship beside him erupted like a sea vent.
Helpless behind the dragon’s eyes, Tirza screamed, enveloped in the blazing colors, the unendurable heat.
The enormous shock battered him almost unconscious. He tumbled over in the water, helpless, and the wash of heat drove him blindly down as far as he could go. The sea above him churned, stinking, some acrid smell like burnt flesh. His whole body hurt, as if he had been pounded all over. He swam up, and put just his head above the surface and drank of the cold dawn air.
Reeking of smoke. The sea before him foul with smoke and bits of the ship and bits of bodies, and the other ships suddenly were bustling with men, shouting, pointing. He sank into the water and swam to the nearest of the ships. This time he did not surface; he only drove his shoulder into the keel and broke it in half.
The other three ships were trying to scramble away, their wooden legs out clawing at the water. He stopped to eat up some men from the broken ship and then chased the next hull, the oars muddling the surface overhead into whorls of glowing light. Coming up from beneath, he closed his jaws on the very tail of it and dragged it under. Then there was more to eat. The last few ships were hurrying off, their yells and howls growing fainter. He busied himself hunting through the wreckage for meat.
Out on the Jawbone, Tirza stopped screaming and woke up.
* * *
Jeon walked out onto the terrace, looking out to sea; a heavy morning fog was just lifting. Beneath the grey fuzz the sea lifted in a sullen swell among the rocks. In the hall, Broga was sitting at the table, playing chess with himself, and Jeon went up toward him.
“I’ll play.”
Broga said, “I find myself more challenging.” He darted a look at Jeon, not even lifting his head. But he began to arrange the pieces, and Jeon sat down.
They played a game in silence and Broga won, as always; usually he concluded this with a summary of Jeon’s faults, but this time he only said, “Tell me more about what you saw at the new fort.”
Jeon reached for the black pieces. He had another kind of gambit to play and this was the opening. He said, “There was a survivor. A crazy man, living in the ruins. He saw what happened.”
“Ah! You never told
this to my brother.”
“He never questioned me.” Jeon kept his eyes on the pieces.
“One of our men? You should have brought him back.”
“No, he was a local man. He was mad; he was living in the wild, eating leaves and mushrooms.”
“But you spoke to him.”
“Yes.”
“Then what did he say? He witnessed it? Who did it?”
“It was some huge force, which came around sunrise. In three galleys, maybe more; it was hard to make sense of him. They carried off dozens of men, chained together.”
“Slavers.”
“Oh, certainly. The southern markets are always seeking slaves.”
“Slavery is unheard of in the Empire,” Broga said. “It is against God’s will.” Broga was staring at Jeon, a frown on his face. He picked up a pawn. “There’s honor to be had here. God’s work. Wiping these devils off the seas.”
Jeon moved his men, wondering if Broga believed him or not. It didn’t really matter, either way. He studied the board, seeing that Broga, as usual, was attacking him on the Queen side. He thought he should know by now how to take advantage of this. He moved up a horse, temporizing, to see if Broga would move his castle, as he usually did.
A sound drew his eyes toward the door; Mervaly was coming in, dressed in deep blue like the sky just after sundown.
Jeon turned his head toward her, seeing her much changed. She never laughed now and she wore dark gowns and she had her hair bound up. She ignored him and he made no greeting to her, but turned back to the game.
Broga had picked up his castle, but he did not put it down. He perched there on the bench, rigid, his body canted forward over the board, his eyes not on the board, but following Mervaly. His face was so stiff his cheeks pleated. Abruptly he tore his gaze from her and stared at the game, and he set the castle piece down.
Not in the usual place. Jeon moved up his bishop, seeing a hole in the array before him. Mervaly walked once around the room, stopping out on the terrace to watch the sea. The wind was frolicking in off the sea and she reached up suddenly and pulled loose the ribbon that bound her hair. The wind blew it wild around her; the sunlight glittered on it. She reached up both hands, twisted the long tresses together, and tied them up again. All that time, Broga moved his men, but he hardly looked at the board.
She went out, and he seemed to close in on himself. His shoulders moved. Jeon used his horse to take Broga’s castle.
“Check,” Jeon said.
Broga’s face sharpened almost to a point, aimed at the board. His hand fisted.
Jeon said, “I think that’s mate, isn’t it?” And started gathering the pieces up for another game.
* * *
Dawd went into the hall, and there was the Princess Casea, sitting by the terrace, with her sewing on her lap. He went to her, as he always did, drawn in. She looked up and smiled. On her knees the band of linen showed its many colors. In her hand a new color, a plain country brown, and unaccountably his heart leapt.
She looked up, tucking away the work into her basket, and she stood. “Are you ready?”
He knew this was the question she had begun to ask him, back in the dark passage, when she rescued him from the castle. Even then he had known the answer. He said, “Yes, I’m ready.”
“Good,” she said, and gave him the blessing of her beautiful smile.
* * *
“I am leaving,” Casea said. They had met at the sea gate and the castle loomed up over them. She took Tirza’s hands between hers. “I can see what is going to happen and I will not stay here to witness it. The castle will have us all dead before this is over.”
Tirza shook her head, so the tears flew. She put Casea’s hands up to her face. Keep faith, she thought. She pressed her face into her sister’s palms.
“I want you to go with me,” Casea said.
Tirza shuddered.
“I know you,” Casea said more gently. “And I know you will stay. You have your own thread to follow. You and Jeon.” She kissed Tirza. “Not forever,” she said. “I will not go forever.” Her warm arms slipped away.
Tirza watched her go off down the beach, walking as she always did, as if she were going only to the cypress tree. She carried nothing; Tirza wondered what Casea would do to live, how she would fare, who had never been out of sight of the castle before. Pressing her fist to her chest, she watched her sister pass the foot of the way up to the cliff. At least she would stay by the sea.
Then, as Casea walked along, a man came from one side to meet her, and fell into step with her. He carried a basket in his hand and a pack on one shoulder. As they went along together she reached out and he shifted the basket to his other hand and took hold of hers.
Tirza thumped her fist on her chest, where her heart ached. Keep faith. But she would not go into the castle. Casea was right; it would consume all of them in the end: that was the curse. Tirza had nowhere to go; she walked out to the Jawbone.
* * *
“Listen to me,” Broga said. He stalked after Oto across the room. “The boy told me a great fish story, that he saw someone at the new fort, who had witnessed what happened. He was lying. He was trying to divert me away from what really happened, somehow, which means he was in on it.” Broga thrust his face toward his brother. “There are more of them, out there, on the sea, in the wild. We have to mount some kind of defense!”
Oto said, “Against who? A beardless boy with no army?” He turned toward Mervaly, standing in the window. “Does your brother have an army?”
She widened her eyes at Oto. She was sorting through this new talk, this new way of looking at Jeon, and she said finally, “My brother is a child.”
Broga snapped, “He lied to me.”
“A naughty child,” she said. “He is harmless.”
Oto barked a laugh. “Except to himself.” He leaned against a table, his arms crossed over his chest. “Broga, stop making up trouble. They were pirates.”
Mervaly said, “But Broga is right, my lord; that’s a trouble.” She cast Broga a sideways look. “It isn’t my brother.”
Broga said, “Why did he lie then?”
“He’s a twisted little person. Somebody is attacking us.” She fixed her gaze on Broga, trying to turn him to her thinking, away from Jeon. “You’re right about that.”
Oto stirred, noticing this exchange, and his voice turned harsh. “If he lied he made it all up.” Oto’s voice was clipped. He was ending this, or trying to. He looked from her to Broga, suspicious.
She said, “He did not make up all those dead and missing men, my lord.”
Broga said, “That’s the truth.”
At that Oto flared, rounding on her. “I’ll do this, woman. This is my work, not yours.”
She wanted to roar at him. She flung another look at Broga, who at least saw beyond his nose, but Oto’s brother was already striding out of the room, his stiff Imperial back to her. She glared once, furious, at Oto, and stalked off to the window. He would leave soon, and then she could steal away to her own room, to her birds.
* * *
When she finally managed to leave the new tower, she took a passage she thought would take her to her birds, but which instead led in a twisting way all around the castle. Around a bend, she came on Jeon, and she cornered him against the wall.
“You talk too much. They know you’re lying. I can’t protect you if you keep pushing yourself into his face all the time.”
He kept the side of his head toward her. “I don’t—”
“Yes, you do. My advice is to go find yourself a fool’s cap, and sit in a corner and drool.”
Now suddenly he wheeled on her. “So you can wallow in his arms—all Luka’s blood on him—and you wallow in his arms—”
She slapped Jeon. That felt good, so she slapped him again. He never moved, even to flinch. His cheek felt like wood. His eyes were dark as pitch. He turned on his heel and walked off.
She watched him go down the dark pas
sage and into the wall at the end. He had been spying on her; she was almost sure of that. Wallowing. The little sneak, she thought, I’ll pluck his eyes out. She wondered if he was up to something else, plotting something deeper. She felt the situation sliding out of her grip.
At last the passage took her upward and let her go to her room full of birds. She had been wandering around for a long while now, Oto would find her missing, would come here at once after her, and they would have a fight again, and this time maybe she would hit him.
The birds chattered happily at the sight of her. There were many of them, as often in the early summer, seagulls and the owl and the lazy old petrel. Three ravens were sitting on the ledge above the hearth, and the sparrows’ nests were full of babies, so it was very loud. She sang back to them, getting their food out, and arranging it all for them. The room was a mess and she took the broom to it while they ate. Then she spread her arms, and they all rushed to find some place to perch on her, and she danced them around the room.
The door burst open. She turned, expecting Oto; in a feathery rush the birds all flew off to the walls or the window. Broga came in the door.
“So,” he said. “This is part of it, isn’t it.”
She said, “Whatever do you mean, Broga?”
He strode up to her and caught her by the arm. “This is how you send word to your people, even when we never see you go—through the birds!”
She pulled away from him. “You’re mad, Broga. The birds have nothing to do with you.”
He drew the knife from his belt and held it up before her eyes. “I’ll make you tell me,” he said, and pressed the tip of the blade under her jaw.
“Get away from me!” She recoiled from him.
He caught her by the wrist, and twisted her arm behind her back, and wound her up against him. She could not move. Their faces were inches apart. The knife jabbed at her neck. “Tell me. I’ll have your evil heart out.” A bolt of pain went up her arm and she whined between her teeth.
The birds exploded from the walls. They came at him in a mass, talons and beaks and blows of their wings, and under their attack he staggered. His grip on her slackened and she slipped and almost fell. Arms flailing, she caught her balance back, almost at his feet, and stood straight. The knife flashed wildly out. The tip of the blade caught her across the throat.
Dragon Heart Page 20