“Already?” Emon grimaced. He’d hoped for at least an afternoon’s peace. “Thank you, Dutton.”
“Shall I fetch him out?” Kindly offered; his seniormost guard knew they’d no extra help.
“He’s safe enough.” Safer than any unfamiliar adult; the boy’s guardian in the mews took its duty seriously.
Still, there’d been more temper than usual this afternoon, an escalation of outbursts in the days since the boys’ return, if he were honest, and perhaps cause for concern. Emon went to the window beside the great balcony doors and threw open the sash. Scatterwit and Cheek stopped pretending to be asleep on their perches beside the fireplace, eyes bright and alert. “Scatterwit,” Emon summoned, choosing the smarter bird. It was Werfol, after all. “Go to the mews and remind our son it’ll be supper soon.”
Ancestors Witness, he could use a quiet supper together.
The crow flew out with a brisk caw. Cheek ruffled his wings, then tucked his head back under a wing, well content to stay indoors and warm.
“Ancestors Ruined and Wronged,” Dutton commented, surveying the pieces of Vorkoun strewn across the wood floor and carpet. “Shall I get brooms, m’lord?”
“No.” He’d thought so at first, but there was something intriguing about the mess. “Let’s get anything recognizable on the table.”
Dutton nodded and began retrieving pieces. “A shame, this.”
A tragedy, Emon thought. The model had been a wedding gift from Lila’s mother, a project constructed by generations of Marerrym artisans, and kept updated in detail that implied much about his wife’s upbringing. Now the river lay split in half lengthwise; bridges and buildings come loose and snapped, but not the mountains.
As if the land had shivered itself free of the doings of history.
As if to reveal a new future.
Emon froze in place. The Lilem was an unnavigable torrent upstream and throughout Ansnor; perforce, any and all shipping turned around at Vorkoun. His proposal to the chancellor had been about how to take advantage of the train. How to make Vorkoun’s people indispensable to its operation—
How had he missed this?
Emon hefted the causeway, the wood intact though some of its painted-on stonework had suffered indignity. Solid. Strong. He needed both hands to hold it up and steady. Needed to think.
The Eld had yet to announce this portion of its route, other than up the valley through Vorkoun. Rumor held they planned tunnels from the Ansnan end and the dismantling of the admittedly aged and frail towers along the Lilem’s north shore for a railbed.
But ask any in Vorkoun: the shore wasn’t to be trusted. Chancellor Milne wasn’t alone thinking the Eld intended to erase Vorkoun, leaving only Mondir and Ansnor.
Maybe he’d found another way. Emon placed the causeway at the center of the table, tipping it to rest against the slope of Stargazer’s Peak. Solid again. The causeway had survived every flood since being built, unscathed and stable.
Could it survive a train? His brows creased. How was he to find out?
“M’lord?”
“Good enough, Dutton,” Emon said, coming back to himself. “I’ll deal with the rest later. Come. Sit with me.” He indicated the chairs set before the fireplace.
The estate house had been constructed to recreate the rustic feel of a mountain home, albeit at a level of luxury few possessed. Still, the simple fireplace echoed a style throughout: a wooden slab for a mantel, the rest local flagstones, gray and unremarkable. The only nod to design were paired white stones, set by the mason to each side where they’d gleam in the fire’s light. Song stones, they were called, for each emitted a clear tone when struck by a hammer. Ironically, once removed from their source up the mountainside they became mute—a discovery said to so upset his then young grandfather, his great grandmother had ordered the mason to stop the practice and finish the main floor fireplaces with ordinary carved insets.
The locals approved. Few felt at ease near the swath of ground filled with the stones. Even the old forester’s hut stood too close to them and had sat empty all Emon’s life. Despite this, or because of it, his ancestors had named the Westietas’ estate “Summer’s Song.”
Summer. Emon grimaced. A fine place to live then, with every hearth filled with flowers, every window open to bird song and warm breeze. Summer being a distant memory, once ablaze, the fireplaces pushed back the chill draughts but full winter, he feared, would be an altogether new challenge.
He’d sketched some possible modifications, including a boiler to act as an internal furnace.
Once he could convince his lady wife, who felt the cold bracing and good for them all and laughed when he’d piled blankets on their bed. Emon smiled to himself. Tease as she might, Lila warmed the sheets first with her body so his left arm and leg, bones broken years ago in a silly accident, didn’t cramp.
It was beyond wonderful, being here, together again. It could be home. He did love the grand old place. Especially this room, the small library, as they called it, furnished for comfort and study. Antechamber to his and Lila’s suite, it had an inconspicuous door to the hall leading to the boys’. A cozy refuge for family and intimates; for trust, not formality.
There should have been a third seat waiting at the fire, for the other of Emon’s closest confidants. Its absence—her absence—left a chill that had nothing to do with a winter night’s damp.
Dutton felt it too, hesitating as Emon drew cups from the pot of mulled wine hanging near the fire for them both. The guard took the cup, but didn’t sit when the baron did, an unfamiliar tension drawing down his lips.
Oh, and hadn’t Lila warned him it wouldn’t be easy, to resume their lives. Something they must do, for his own heart, and most of all, the good of their boys.
Ancestors Weary and Worn, how he hated this. “Sit, Dutton.” The other had barely settled when he went on, refusing pity. “Bish picked her side.”
Dutton flinched as though struck. “Sir,” he protested, white-lipped.
Emon deliberately stretched out his legs and crossed his slippered feet. “Don’t ‘sir’ me here, my friend. We’ll not sit with her ghost leaning over our shoulders. You saved my life and executed a traitor when you killed her. I’m grateful for the former and the latter? May have saved Vorkoun.”
Silence fell. Dutton raised his cup and took a sip. He took his time swallowing, eyes on the fire. Finally, in a halting, hard voice, he spoke. “S’long as we don’t forget Bish was more than that, once.” He lifted his cup. “Ancestors Dear and Departed, she’d wake the squad early on our single day off, to hear us squawk.”
Bish Fingal had fought by Dutton’s side on the border and, according to Lila who knew everything under this roof, been his sometime lover for years.
She’d had been Emon’s personal guard since he was confirmed as heir. He’d thought to make her Semyn’s—
Emon put his cup on the round table between the chairs. Turned it. Found no comfort in remembrance, when all he felt was betrayed, and mayhap that made him the lesser man.
So be it. “I’ve an assignment for you, if you’ll take it.”
Dutton sat straighter. “The baroness found Lurgan?”
Glammis Lurgan, who’d thought to collect those with gifts—including Lila, who truedreamed, and her brother Bannan, who saw the truth in others—and Heart’s Blood, what if the scoundrel learned of Werfol who’d somehow both, poor wee lad—
Who’d stay here and be safe until Lila ended this particular threat. Emon waited for his pulse to steady. “Not yet.” He lightened his tone. “You’re aware Lila’s planned a second Midwinter Beholding, since the staff—and we—missed ours.” Being smuggled across borders tended to keep celebrations at bay.
Though, as tradition demanded, Emon had visited the Westietas ossuary, to confess his failures of the past year, and tell his ancestors of his hopes to do better t
his one. A brief conversation: he’d lost Vorkoun and been exiled from court until Ordo relented—not among his hopes for this year, not at all.
He’d settle for the city surviving it. His gaze drifted to the table and the causeway.
“I’ve heard,” Dutton commented dryly. “In three days, with a cook and what, two stablehands and a housekeeper left? I’m surprised the baroness didn’t send away the house guard.”
“And have no one to spar against?” They both chuckled at that, though Dutton knew as well as Emon that each of Lila’s five guards must have satisfied her gauge of loyalty or they’d have joined their late cook.
Emon lifted his cup in a toast. “Lila’s taken on the Midwinter Beholding as something of a campaign.” In fact, he suspected a campaign was precisely what his wife had in mind, one designed to root out any remaining traitors. “Having seen the guest list? Ancestors save the furnishings.”
“M’lady secures the estate before leaving on the hunt.” With wolfish anticipation. “I’ll take that assignment and glad of it—”
Emon shook his head.
Dutton’s face fell. “You can’t be wanting me to help with the party. M’lord, surely not!”
“I’d never do that to you,” he promised, restraining a laugh. “Though I warrant it’ll be an occasion not to miss, Ancestors Tumultuous and Troubled. Why, I might—” Emon paused, pursing his lips in thought, then continued, “I will extend a few invitations of my own.”
“Is that wise, m’lord?” The other leaned forward. “Didn’t the prince say you weren’t to conduct business until—” A hand scarred by swordplay made a rude gesture.
“Until I’m forgiven my transgressions against our fair ruler?” Emon’s smile was as mischievous as Weed’s. “Worry not. I’ve no interest in courting those whose focus is Avyo and the House of Keys.” His expression turned serious. “Dutton, what I would ask of you is this. Give your skills and experience to our son, as his personal guard. You needn’t answer right—”
“I accept, sir. Of course. It would be an honor to serve the heir. A right fine young lordling . . .” Dutton’s voice trailed away as he regarded his baron. “Ancestors Tried and Twisted. You don’t mean Semyn, do you?”
“Until Lila deals with Lurgan, Semyn isn’t the one at greatest risk. Dutton, Weed respects you. And you know his secrets.”
Another considering pause, for Dutton wasn’t a man to give his word lightly, then a brisk nod. “I accept, sir, and gladly. I’ll do my best to keep him safe, m’lord. You’ve my life on it.” The guard pointed his cup at Emon. “But no one knows the whole of that lad’s secrets. Trust me on that.”
William Had a Secret
William had a secret. It was a secret bigger than any secret anyone in the world had ever had. A secret only the bravest boy in the kingdom could keep.
If his little brother Simon knew, he’d be jealous. And probably tell, because his brother couldn’t be trusted, being a liar, and would want to show him up.
Which wasn’t entirely true. Simon could be a very good brother and did keep secrets when they mattered.
But this secret wasn’t for William to share.
So he waited quiet as a mouse until he heard Simon snoring. William pulled back the covers of his bed and got up. He waited still as a tree to be sure Simon was really asleep and not pretending. William counted every snore until he got to ten.
No one could pretend to snore for more than ten.
Satisfied, William stuffed his pillow under the covers to make it look as though he were in his bed, in case Momma came to check. He pulled out the bag he’d packed that morning from under the bed, careful not to make any noise.
Not that Simon could hear him over the snoring.
William snuck out the bedroom door and down the hall into the library. It was nice, with chairs and a fireplace and bookshelves and jars of sweets, because he was important, being heir to the kingdom and already a prince.
That’s why Momma and Poppa had Simon, it being prudent to have a younger brother in case something bad happened to him. Cook had said this truth with a smile and given him a jam tart.
William was glad, mostly, to have a brother and nothing bad could happen to him, for William had a protector of his own. And it wasn’t a stuffy tutor who spied on him and couldn’t use a sword.
William had a dragon.
Three
Scatterwit arrived in the mews with a caw and a clatter that made Werfol jump and drop his pencil. Jumping startled the pigeons from their roosts, which Momma wouldn’t like. The birds were sleek racers, able to carry messages over the mountains, and needed their rest.
It didn’t help at all when Jojo jumped too and shrilled his fury at Scatterwit, charging about looking for a way to reach the crow, who, having flown in through a pigeon hole, perched barely out of reach to be a torment to the gander.
“Jojo!” Werfol clucked his tongue soothingly. “Easy, boy.”
The gander shook his open beak in final dire threat, then snapped it shut and waddled up to lean on the boy.
“You’re too big,” Werfol protested.
Jojo nibbled his earlobe, then began on his hair.
“Stop that,” he tried to say, but for all his bluster, there was only one thing Jojo wanted and that was approval. Putting aside his notebook, Werfol did his best to wrap his arms around the bird, there certainly no getting this much Jojo into his lap as he had while raising him from a gosling.
It did feel nice, having a warm armful of what loved him, especially today. Werfol sniffed. “I love you, Jojo.”
Scatterwit gave a nasty little chuckle. At least it sounded nasty, and Werfol hurriedly pushed the gander aside. He glowered up at the crow. “What do you want?”
Balanced on one foot, she spread the four scaled toes of the other, each ending in a sharp black claw. Once sure of his attention, the forward-facing three began to move in practiced gestures.
Signs. Werfol knew how to sign back. “I don’t want supper. I’m not hungry,” he said instead. “Go back and tell Poppa. And tell him I’m busy. Too busy to be bothered. Now go!” This time he made the sign for GO!
Unimpressed, the crow tilted her head to regard him with one bright eye, then gave a soft questioning chirp.
Being Scatterwit, who understood more than a bird should.
Werfol let out a shaky sigh. “I got mad at Semyn. I got mad at—at everything. I said—I want—I need to be alone for a while. Please?”
To his relief, the crow didn’t argue, but with a bob of her head gave the quiet chirrup in her throat that meant compliance and maybe sympathy—though one was never sure with Scatterwit—then flew out the opening.
To report. Werfol sighed again. There was no helping that.
He went back to his perch atop the feed, sitting on the ragged blanket he’d found in the mews. The burlap sacks prickled otherwise. Having forgotten his pencil, Werfol climbed down to retrieve it, then settled himself again.
The mews settled around him, pigeons fluffed and preening their neighbors, Jojo’s head under a wing. Sunbeams caught on motes of dust and feather down as the late afternoon sun peeked through the windows, and there was no one to care what he did.
Werfol laid down, fingers curled around his pencil, cheek pressed to the open page of his notebook so the last word he’d written filled his view. “Dragon,” he whispered.
Up close, the word looked bigger, more important.
More real.
His eyes closed and he fell into a dream.
* * *
“No need to wait on the boys,” Emon announced, taking his seat at the fold-out table. He thought he said it with understanding and good cheer, despite it being the same tiresome story as every supper since returning home. Weed wasn’t coming, so Semyn wasn’t hungry either. The dining room remained abandoned; the cook sent up trays.
/> Lila, not fooled, gave him a sympathetic look. “They learned to rely on one another while without us, husband. It’ll take time.”
“They’re children,” he protested.
“Who may one day hold the balance of power in Rhoth.” A dimple. “If you aren’t assassinated before Semyn is declared and accepted this spring. There are those you call friends, my too-trusting husband, who’d prefer an emptied seat and Ordo’s puppet to fill it.”
“You won’t let that happen, Dearest Heart,” he pointed out, delighted to see the dimple deepen. Emon put out his hand. Lila’s, warm, strong, and callused, came to rest in it. “There are—” he breathed softly, ready to leave supper on the table that instant, “—advantages to being alone—”
She captured his hand and pressed her lips to the palm, speeding his heart, then let go with a wink and decisive, “For one, we can discuss these invitations of yours.”
Emon gave a wistful sigh, then took a spoonful of soup. “You disapprove?”
His wife smiled her slow wise smile. “In no way, Husband. In fact, I’ve an addition to propose. Is it not time we entertained our new neighbors?”
He put down his spoon, appetite lost. “Lila—”
She tore meat tidily from a drumstick with her teeth, chewing with gusto. Her green-eyed gaze didn’t leave his.
“Heart’s Blood.” Emon leaned back, calculating. Recalculating. “Ansnans.” He glanced to the side table, its contents now covered in a cloth, thinking of what he’d begun to build there, realizing with quickening heartbeat what his brilliant partner had seen first. “They designed and helped build the causeway. Who better to know its capacity?”
“And who better to know rail?” Lila suggested. “They use it in their mines.”
“Carts pulled by oxen,” he countered, but wasn’t that the lure? “They’d be interested in engines of their own.”
“Did not our sage prince forbid any exchange of such technology with the Eld?”
A Dragon for William Page 3