“Bluster.” Emon chuckled. “Ancestors Foolish and Futile, the first time their engine needs oil or fuel, we’d have its secrets.”
“Those you don’t already, my clever tinkerer. Or have you been otherwise occupied in your workshop?”
He smiled an acknowledgment. “This new neighbor must be an engineer. Construction. Mining. And willing to talk to us.”
Lila brought a fold of a napkin to the corner of her lips. “I may have a contact.”
“The seasons are less dependable, my love,” he said admiringly, then grew serious. “I foresee but one difficulty bringing Ansnans here. Our other guests are sworn enemies.”
Green eyes glinted with a hint of frost. “We abound with enemies, known and hidden, old and freshly made. Neither enmity nor weapons will cross our threshold.”
Meaning Lila had a plan to thwart any ill-mannered and potentially deadly disruption. Moreover, one he wasn’t invited to share. They each had their skills. Emon nodded, comforted.
Until her finger’s flick to the covered model. “Have you given thought to my suggestion regarding The Knob?” She lowered her voice. “Can it be done?”
The Knob loomed over the causeway, a granite protrusion of Stargazer Mountain revered for its magnificent views. Before Emon’s time, there’d been a basket and pulley system not only for viewing, but to bring pious Ansnans closer to their celestial realm.
The ropes had rotted long ago, along with such innocent visits. “I thought you were joking.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “You hoped I was and knew I wasn’t. Emon, we must have the means to stop this train. We cannot walk toothless into a future where the Eld could speed an invading force into the heartland and capital of Rhoth, not to mention Ansnor.”
“The Eld are peaceful traders. They value scholarship and civil behavior—”
The other eyebrow rose. “And how highly do they value us and our accomplishments, Husband? How civil are we? How valued and educated by their standards?”
The answer, not at all, he swallowed like a bitter pill. Instead, Emon spoke with great care, acutely aware what he was about to ask of her, as aware she could take offense or worse, deny him and then where would they be? “We must not become what they believe of us, Lila. We must be better—please. Don’t take us down this path.”
To his unutterable relief, she gave a slow nod. “Ancestors Witness, I chose to be at your side, Dearest Heart, because you are that rarity: a leader with principles.” Her lips quirked to the side. “However potentially dangerous they may prove.”
Moisture obscured his vision. Emon coughed to clear his throat, then said lightly, “Not because I’m wise, witty, and wonderful between the sheets?”
Lila laughed, as willing as he to ease the moment. “All a bonus, to be sure.”
Emon picked up his spoon. “Tell me, my dear lady wife. How are we to manage this party with so few staff—or are you inviting back our Ansnan trio?”
“Ordo’s joke on us is over. Those moving into Vorkoun claimed any and all of their people, including the few once willing to work for Rhothans.” A raised finger. “Our needs are seen to, my dear lord husband. The matter left to discuss while we have privacy? Our youngest son and what to do with him.”
“I thought you approved of Dutton’s assignment.”
She nodded. “From normal dangers, yes, no one better. But he can’t protect Werfol from himself.”
“The child’s always had a temper—”
“He’s no child. Not any more.” Her voice was distant. Almost aloof.
Heart’s Blood. Emon swallowed his objection—nay, his plea. “Because of his gifts,” he acknowledged. Hard enough on Semyn, learning to be heir in such times. But Weed? Able to see the lies that were everywhere, on every face? Let alone what he might ’dream—the last time, they’d almost lost him. Ancestors Despairing and Dire. He looked to his wife. “What must we do?”
Instead of answering, Lila came around the table. He shifted back and opened his arms, welcoming her on his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know what we can do.” Whispered, as if admitting failure aloud might cause it. “Words cannot express how terrifying it was, Emon, for Bannan and for me. Discovering what we’d become, what it meant, striving to control it.”
“You survived—”
“We were older, with but one gift. We had each other.”
“Weed has you,” he whispered, holding her tight.
“Of what use am I?” He was appalled to feel her shiver. “Even if I knew what to say, Weed may be too young to understand. Emon, I’m afraid.”
Lila, who feared nothing. “Of what?”
The words were like stones. “Losing him.”
“We won’t let that happen.” He breathed in her scent, pressed his lips to her hair, and closed his eyes.
Sharing her fear.
William’s Great Plan
“As always, we are grateful for your help, Prince William.”
William bowed and waved. The people of the kingdom bowed and waved back. Bowing and waving went on for a very long time, the people delighted to be saved from the horrible invading army of Ansnithan. They really should have bowed to his dragon, who’d frightened the army all the way home, but his dragon didn’t like to take credit.
After all, it had been William’s plan. Everyone knew the Ansnithans were as superstitious and dumb as they were evil and sneaky. They hadn’t looked to see if there was one dragon or a hundred, running away so fast they dropped the treasure they’d stolen.
Which also made the people of the kingdom happy.
Bowing and waving was tiring. William begged the people of the kingdom to go forth and celebrate without him, but they wouldn’t hear of it.
So he curled up in a ball and fell asleep, then and there.
Which was a joke, you see, to make everyone laugh, because of course he was brave and a prince who’d saved the kingdom, and princes and heroes didn’t fall asleep in front of strangers.
The time came when the people were too tired to celebrate a moment longer and everyone went home. William gladly did the same.
He made it to the door of his tower before his dragon said, in his itchy, dragon voice, Come home with me, sweet William.
“My home is here,” William said firmly, putting his hand on the doorknob.
My home is better, dear William. Let me fly you there.
He looked up. His dragon was curled around the tower roof, tail hanging free. Rare, that the dragon allowed himself to be seen, even by William. He must, William thought, really want me to come. And how beautiful his dragon was, with scales the color of spring grass, and eyes like rainbows.
And how very much William wanted to fly. He hadn’t, not yet, being as sensible as he was brave and well aware a dragon wasn’t like a pony, with a saddle and reins.
There was no telling where his dragon might take him. Or if he’d bring him home again.
“Later,” William said, instead of no or yes. “Good night, Dragon. Thank you for saving the kingdom,” he added, because the truth was important.
I would do anything for you, my William. The dragon lowered his great head, fangs white as snow, until William could see himself in one rainbow eye, and felt smothered in a breath, hot as fire.
To avoid a second breath, that was all, William opened the door and rushed inside. He closed it tight behind him, not to keep his dragon out, but because doors were to be closed.
And when he heard one last dragony sentence, he shivered, because he was tired and cold. Not because he was afraid.
Dream well. I’ll be waiting.
Four
Shivering, Werfol closed his notebook and wrapped the string around it, tying three extra knots, though his fingers felt numb and stiff. He’d been in the mews too long and was sorry, now, to miss supper, that was all.
Semyn would sneak him something in their room.
Unless he was still mad.
Semyn wouldn’t stay mad. He never did. Werfol cheered as he wrapped the notebook and pencils in the worn blanket. Poppa didn’t stay mad either. Not if he cleaned up and was polite and extra good.
Momma?
Was never mad, not at him, not at Semyn, but her disappointment was worse. You couldn’t fool Momma either. Momma knew everything.
Almost.
To make sure, Werfol tucked his bundle behind the feed bags, pushing it as far down as he could. He brushed cobwebs and feathers from his jerkin, then his hair. He wasn’t sure why he had to keep this story secret. Unless it was because it would upset Momma and probably Poppa because they’d told him dreams could be dangerous and he’d promised to tell them if he had another of his special dreams.
Like the scary ones he’d had about Momma, when she’d been in danger—
Dreaming about his dragon wasn’t at all the same, Werfol assured himself. He could wake up any time he wanted to and besides, these dreams weren’t about real things. He’d made up William, hadn’t he? Most importantly, his dream dragon didn’t look or act like Wisp, who was real, even if Semyn couldn’t remember.
He didn’t want anyone else reading his story, that was all, growing hot inside at the thought. His dreams weren’t anyone else’s business.
Not that anyone else had time to care.
Trying not to get angry at that, Werfol left the mews, careful to close the door against foxes because however brave JoJo was, a goose was tasty.
As Cook would say. Cook had said a great many things to Werfol when no one else was around, things that were true. Until he’d said the one that wasn’t. Said, “I’m your friend.”
He wasn’t sorry Cook had had his comeuppance, having told a big fat lie like that. Not sorry at all. If his dragon were real—
The dark thought felt strange and wrong. Not like something he’d think. Werfol knew it wasn’t right to wish harm, or wish to be able to cause harm.
It wasn’t right at all.
Even if, just maybe, he could.
* * *
There were two ways to the boys’ bedroom. The first went through the library, where they would probably not be allowed to play until their parents forgot about the loss of Vorkoun during their battle, and where their parents would likely be taking their supper on the rickety fold-out table again and possibly grumpy about it.
Werfol was not about to go that way.
The second went up the stairs the staff used. It was the one the family used too, if they had muddy feet or wet clothes, or had been riding or, as Momma did daily, came in sweaty from weapons’ practice, or, as Poppa did often, had greasy hands from tinkering. They used it then because the laundry room with its sink and soap were right beside the stairs, off the kitchen, and you mustn’t make extra work for staff you could clean up yourself.
The new cook, which was a funny thing to say as she was wrinkled as their great-uncle with a weird hump on her back, didn’t look up when Werfol reappeared in her kitchen, his face and hands well scrubbed.
A floured finger pointed to the rack of cheese buns cooling on the counter. Feeling better about this cook, Werfol took two, bobbing his head with a quick, “Thank you. One’s for my brother.” In case she thought him greedy.
And in case Semyn might still be a little mad at him.
The buns were too hot to bite and uncomfortable to hold, so Werfol juggled them, mouth watering, as he climbed the stairs to the upper hall.
Where he stopped in his tracks.
There was a guard standing beside the closed door to their bedroom.
There was never a guard.
Worse, it wasn’t one of Momma’s five, younger and fit and fun, all of whom looked splendid in the house livery and patiently taught Semyn and Werfol with wooden swords.
This was Poppa’s seniormost guard, the grim and famous Dutton Omemee, dressed in his well-worn light armor. With a pistol as well as a real sword at his hip.
“Has something happened?” Werfol demanded in a shocked whisper, putting his back to the wall. His eyes flared deep gold. “Tell me!”
The guard took a step into the hall, spun smartly to face him, then, to Werfol’s astonishment, gave a deep bow, fingertips to floor. Weapons clanked as the man straightened. “I’ve been assigned to your service, Master Westietas.”
The truth. But he wasn’t a prince, like William. He wasn’t even the heir. Werfol dropped the buns. “Semyn—!”
“No! Forgive me, Master.” The guard went to one knee. “Your brother’s well. He’s meeting with your parents in the library. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” He picked up the buns then met Werfol’s searching gaze without hesitation. “You know I speak the truth.”
Werfol nodded warily, the glow of his eyes fading to brown, then frowned. “That’s why it’s you. But why are you with me instead of Poppa? Are you too old now?” He lowered his voice. “Or are you being punished?”
Dutton stood, once more at attention. His lips twitched as though he wanted to smile, but he didn’t. “I’m sure the baron will explain—”
“You will,” Werfol interrupted, sharply. “You said you were assigned to my service. That means you are loyal to me first and must answer my questions.”
“That it does, Master Westietas.” The almost smile disappeared. “I am still fit for duty, and not being punished. It is an honor to serve you, a task your Poppa offered and I accepted.”
Werfol felt slightly better about the situation. “So you’re not here to spy on me.”
“No, Master. I’m here to die for you. If necessary,” said in a light tone.
It wasn’t often people spoke to him as if he were an adult and understood important things. Werfol answered the same way. “Ancestors Witness, I very much hope that doesn’t happen. What should I call you?”
“Dutton, if it pleases my master.”
“It does. And you should call me Werfol, please.” He scrunched his face. “‘Master Westietas’ sounds old.”
“Thank you. Werfol. I will,” Dutton agreed, “but only when we are alone.”
Protocol. Werfol knew all about that. “Very well.” He took the buns. “I brought one for Semyn, but you can have mine if you’re hungry.” After checking it for dust, he held it out.
“Most kind, but I don’t eat on duty, m—Werfol. Would you care to join your family?”
Unsure his family cared to see him, tonight, Werfol shook his head. “Not now, Dutton.”
The guard opened the bedroom door for him, meaning Werfol had to go through it or look like he didn’t know what to do with a guard of his very own.
It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out, he thought. He’d watched Momma and Poppa with the staff. If only Dutton weren’t big and, well, dangerous.
Like a dragon, he reminded himself, cheering up until Dutton followed him into the large bedroom he and Semyn shared.
Suddenly, it seemed smaller and a dreadful mess. It had probably been a dreadful mess before, the boy admitted to himself, but watching Dutton step courteously over dirty clothes and scattered toys made Werfol feel a little dreadful himself. As for the matching mounds of pillows, books, blankets, and other bits?
“I don’t suppose you make beds, do you?” he asked forlornly.
Dutton took the cheese buns and balanced them on the smidge of a bedside table not otherwise covered, then chuckled. “I can show you how we make them in the barracks. How’s that? You’ll be able to bounce a sprat to the ceiling.”
He’d a jar of the coins. Werfol brightened. “I should like that very much.” He squeezed by Dutton to open the balcony doors, it smelling better outside, and how else were they to hear the owl that lived in the big pine?
A big scarred hand held them closed. “Your pardon, Werfol. These must r
emain shut and locked. Your parents’ orders.”
They couldn’t go anywhere but the estate. Couldn’t see anyone new or go out, except where they could be seen from a window, to the mews or Poppa’s workshop. This was the worst. Werfol glared up at Dutton, hands becoming fists, eyes beginning to glow. “Why?” He read hesitation in the guard’s face. Conflict.
So Werfol did what Momma would do. He relaxed his fists and, mimicking her calm, reasonable tone, the one that he and Semyn—and Poppa—knew to obey without question, said, “Either you’re my guard, Dutton, or you’re not. Tell me why my parents are afraid, or be discharged at once.”
Dutton’s right eyebrow rose.
Werfol waited, ominous silence being another excellent tactic of Momma’s.
The eyebrow lowered and the guard let out a gusty breath. “Very well. The person who tried to kidnap your uncle in Mellynne was also responsible for the attack on your wagon on the Northward Road. The baroness believes he may continue to have agents on or near the estate. His name is all we know for certain. Glammis Lurgan. His name, and that he hunts people with—with special gifts. Like your mother, Werfol.”
“And me?” Werfol asked, this time in a very small, very young voice. “W-why?”
“We don’t know. It doesn’t matter.” Dutton went down on one knee again and gathered the unresisting boy in his arms. “I’ll keep you safe. I swear it by my Ancestors,” he vowed in a deep rough voice.
He meant to be reassuring, and was, but Werfol still felt cold inside. The point wasn’t that he had a guard of his own.
It was who guarded Momma. Who was the bravest person in the world and fierce, but there was only one of her, and she’d be worrying about him. And Uncle Bannan.
Much became clearer. Matters like why Uncle Bannan hadn’t come home with them, and why he hadn’t been allowed to stay with him in Marrowdell.
“Now,” Dutton said gruffly, standing up again. “Let’s get these beds in order, shall we? Tomorrow’s a busy day.”
A Dragon for William Page 4