Werfol let himself be distracted. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
“The baroness has declared there’s to be a Westietas’ Midwinter Beholding after all. Three days hence, so the preparations start immediately.”
“But—” This wasn’t about ignoring Marrowdell, Werfol realized, heart beating faster. This was Momma and battle strategy. “Will there be fighting?” he asked eagerly. “Shall heads roll in the fireplaces?” That being a favorite phrase from a book Semyn had read aloud the other night.
Dutton looked shocked but wasn’t, Werfol could tell. The guard knew Momma too. “There will, I’m quite sure, be the usual feasting and fun. There’s to be guests.”
“Oh.” Meaning serious business, because there was always serious business when guests were invited to what was usually a family event. There’d be a list of names for him and Semyn to memorize, along with a set of suitable topics and those to avoid. Most importantly, there’d be key phrases to listen for, strangers having looser tongues, as Momma would say, near children.
Semyn would be receiving those instructions now. They’d have to practice every waking moment to be ready in time.
Werfol yawned at the thought.
“The beds?” Dutton suggested.
* * *
“Weed? Are you asleep?”
At the whisper, Werfol shoved Goosie behind the mattress before he sat up and touched the lamp on the table between his and Semyn’s beds. It was a magic lamp, from Mellynne’s Shadow District, and cast patterns of stars on the walls and ceiling that changed with the seasons, just like real stars. By that light, he could see Semyn’s startled look at the unusually tidy state of their beds and wanted to laugh, but couldn’t, not yet, in case his brother was still mad.
His “I brought you a cheese bun—” overlapped his brother’s “I brought you some ham—” and all was right again.
The boys sat cross-legged on Weed’s bed because Semyn didn’t want to disturb the crisp taut sheets of his own, sharing their bounty. Between mouthfuls, Semyn told Werfol what their parents had said, which was pretty much what Dutton had said, with a couple of additions.
“You’re to take everyone’s weapons at the door?” Werfol echoed, feeling a pang of envy. “Why can’t I help?”
“You know why.” Semyn’s shoulder bumped his. “Someone will try to lie and you’d spot it, then everyone in Vorkoun will know you’re a truthseer. Your gift has to stay a secret.”
“What good is it if I can’t use it?”
“You will,” his brother said staunchly. “When I’m baron, I’ll take you to the House of Keys with me and we’ll use secret signals when anyone lies.”
“Prince Ordo always lies. So do most of the barons, Momma says.”
The brothers chewed in thoughtful silence a moment. “It’s still a good plan,” Semyn said at last. “That way, we’d know for sure who we can trust.”
Werfol nodded. “We can trust Dutton.”
“And Tir, if he were here.” By now, their uncle’s stalwart friend and theirs had returned to work in Avyo.
The boys traded names of those they deemed trustworthy. The list was distressingly short and included few on Momma’s guest list.
“What we really need are clever spies in everyone’s pocket,” Werfol declared. “Like house toads.”
“Be serious.”
He was, Werfol thought, fighting back temper.
“And I suppose you’d rather have a dragon protecting you than Dutton.”
He most certainly would, if the dragon were Wisp, though that wasn’t fair to Dutton and Wisp could live only in Marrowdell. Or the magical Verge. Or places that touched it, which was a distracting notion.
“You should have a guard too,” Werfol said instead.
“Poppa asked me if there’s anyone I’d prefer, of his or Momma’s.” Semyn didn’t sound happy. “I don’t want to pick.”
“Because they’d have to die for you.” Done with the tasty ham, Werfol wiped his hands on his nightgown. “I would, you know,” he asserted.
“As would I, for you,” Semyn replied, and all was right with the world again until he added, “Especially if you’d stop embellishing.”
The pillow fight that ensued undid all the taut sheets and tidying.
William Catches the Black Moustache
His brother Simon was a bother, especially today. Why today? Because there was to be a party at the tower, and Simon wanted it to be all about him, when it was to celebrate the capture of the Black Moustache.
The Black Moustache had been a terrible scourge throughout the land. A scourge was someone who’d do bad things for no reason, and hurt anyone he could, so catching him was wonderful.
And William had done it. He’d discovered the Black Moustache hiding in a hedge and ordered his dragon to scare the Black Moustache into the barn, then to sit on the roof growling until troops arrived to wrap the scourge in irons and take him away.
Everyone was grateful and bowed. Everyone but Simon, who whined he’d wanted to help and why couldn’t he and why didn’t he have a dragon too.
As if a dragon would like someone like him. As if anyone would.
William sat on the roof of the tower. He whistled then watched his dragon fly through the clouds to hover, wings moving not at all, in front of him in midair.
Is it today, William? Will you fly to my home with me? His dragon came closer and closer, rainbow eyes gleaming. Or may I come home with you? I’d like that.
And be with Simon too? “No!” William shouted. “You stay here. You’re my dragon.”
Yes, William. I am yours, as you are mine.
Five
The sky was blue as could be and the sun’s bright rays caught sparks from the mountain peaks beyond. Closer, it found the cobbled path to the Westietas Ossuary, low and strong along the ridgeline, and glittered blindingly white across the song stones where they spilled like forgotten little eggs down the slope, along the path. So bright was the sunlight, it cast deep fingered shadows into the house, particularly on the right side of the upper landing, making it the perfect place to spy on the front doors below.
Werfol pressed his face between the balusters. Beside him, Semyn did the same. That’s twenty, his brother signed.
Werfol signed twenty back to confirm.
The steady stream of messengers kept the house guard busy opening and closing doors as they delivered replies to Momma’s party. If anyone felt delaying an event normally timed to the movement of the world through the heavens was presumptuous, you wouldn’t know it by the flood of announced: “so and so will be delighted to attend.”
That’s everyone, Semyn signed after three more messengers came and went. The guards, plainly relieved, closed and barred the doors then headed for the kitchen.
The boys turned to sit with their backs against the balusters. “They told the truth,” Werfol announced. “Everyone’s coming.”
Semyn gave him a shove. “You weren’t to check.”
“I didn’t,” he replied smugly. “Messengers believe their messages, don’t they?”
His brother rolled his eyes. “Don’t joke about it, Weed.”
“Don’t be so gullible.” Werfol shoved back, but not as hard. “Why are they all coming?” he wondered aloud. “Maybe it’s because Vorkoun’s full of Ansnans and they don’t have parties. I bet everyone’s bored.”
“It’s not that, Weed,” Semyn replied slowly. “Not only that. I think everyone’s afraid to say no. They have to come.”
“Why?”
“If they don’t, they could miss something important.”
Werfol blinked. “At our Midwinter Beholding?”
“Just because Poppa’s in exile and isn’t to do anything official, doesn’t mean things aren’t being done.”
Werfol puzzled at that for a moment. Giving up
, he nodded. Semyn knew about things. “I’ve learned all the names,” he boasted. It helped that most on the list had attended other events, in happier times. “You?”
“I think so. We don’t have the words yet. The sensitive ones.”
Werfol made a face. “I bet ‘Lurgan’ is one of them.”
Semyn nodded. “And ‘train.’”
They sat, contemplating words of dire import, sunbeams finding and tickling their feet. Straight ahead rose the wall of windows overlooking the broad terrace that would fill with guests tomorrow night. Werfol had loved parties. Before. He wasn’t sure he would love this one. “I could pretend to be sick and stay in bed.”
“I’d send you up cake,” Semyn promised.
Which sounded a most excellent plan until Werfol thought more about it. “Momma won’t believe me.”
“That’s true.” A moment’s thoughtful pause, then Semyn said, “You could stay with the cakes. To be sure no one took too many pieces. You could duck under the table if you wanted to.”
Werfol beamed. “That’s a good idea.”
“Or the cook might need help in the kitchen.”
Werfol made a face again. “She’s a stranger.”
“The cakes, then.” Semyn made a face too. “I wish this was our real Westietas’ Midwinter Beholding.”
And not some plot of their mother’s. Who was avoiding him, Werfol thought with rising frustration, because it was all lies and Momma knew he’d see hers. That’s why she took her breakfast with Poppa and their guards.
“C’mon, Weed,” Semyn said, climbing to his feet. “Our new tutor will be here soon. Momma wants us to greet him.”
“Namron Setac.” Werfol didn’t budge. “What sort of name is that? It could be Ansnan.” Which would be scary, because they’d been the enemy until the treaty and he wasn’t at all convinced names on a piece of paper changed that. Though Momma was capable of hiring an Ansnan tutor, oh yes. Momma believed in learning from those you couldn’t trust, as much as from those you could. “I don’t like him.”
His brother gazed down at him with an odd look, as if assessing him the way Momma could. “I can do it, if you want. You don’t have to come.”
Werfol jumped to his feet, happy to accept until another thought occurred to him and he frowned, growing angry. “I’m not scared of a stupid Ansnan. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That I’m scared.” The truthseer’s eyes glowed.
Rather than deny it, Semyn frowned back. “Ancestors Dumb and Difficult, Weed. Why can’t you ever let me help?”
“Because I don’t need help!” Werfol raged. “I don’t want help. Especially not from someone who thinks he’s oh so special and knows everything. You don’t know anything!” he finished, with a two-handed shove to the chest that caught Semyn by surprise and sent him staggering back. Werfol made fists, ready to fight—
But his brother didn’t look angry, he looked sad. “I don’t know you.” He turned and walked away.
Which wasn’t right. “I’m not coming to meet the stupid Ansnan!” Werfol cried. “Hear me?”
Semyn disappeared into the hall.
“Go! I don’t need you!”
He did, though. Semyn did know him, better than anyone, and right then, Werfol needed his brother so much his stomach ached and his hands shook and he found it hard to breathe. If only he’d kept his temper. Been able to admit he was wrong.
Told Semyn about the dragon—
He wouldn’t believe any of it. How could he? How could anyone?
Werfol sniffed once, lonely in a way he’d never felt before, then went down the stairs.
* * *
In Marrowdell, they’d been allowed to go everywhere, almost, on their own. They’d take dried apples to the huge draught horses and Jupp’s Old Pony, who’d proved too smart for them to borrow but had long soft whiskers. They’d milked cows, or tried, and fed acorns to the great sows who had piglets. The estate didn’t have piglets, but there was a stable, and that’s where Werfol went for company.
He’d have brought Dutton, but his new guard was in the meeting with Momma and Poppa. Who’d expect him to be with Semyn and the stupid Ansnan, so Werfol dutifully told the only person he could find, the cook, where he would be instead.
Being a little tired of being in the wrong.
The stable, full of warmth and smells and bright eyes, did make him feel a little better. Werfol brought bacon strips for Dauntless and Spirit, who looked like big horses despite being kruar and magical. They’d brought their mother, Semyn, and him home from Marrowdell, and stayed, sworn to serve.
Fools after bloodshed and glory, Momma said, of which they’d find none here, but she liked the beasts well enough, especially Spirit. The kruar were drawn to truthseers. When he was bigger, Dauntless would be his.
When he was much bigger, Werfol still needing to stand on a box to offer the treat. “I miss Marrowdell,” he whispered to Dauntless, answered by the curl of a forked tongue over a fang. “I miss Wisp.”
No point talking to them, really. The problem with the kruar was that while they stayed brave and loyal, they forgot what they were the moment they left the edge, which was where the magical Verge, their real home, touched this world. They could no longer talk. No longer truly understand. Lucky for these kruar—and those around them—the Westietas’ stablehands well remembered another of their kind, Bannan’s great warhorse Scourge. They kept fingers clear and left the stable open at night, to let the pair hunt rabbits.
Werfol didn’t neglect their pony, Blazer, having brought apples as well as bacon, though this summer past he’d outgrown both saddle and pony, as Semyn had the summer before. “It’s not as if I’m allowed to ride anywhere,” he told Blazer, who lipped his fingers and snorted at the taste.
Duty done, Werfol left the stable and walked past their father’s silent workshop to reach the mews, nestled against the stable’s back wall. He refreshed the bedding and seed for the pigeons and JoJo, checking they’d water, then settled himself on his blanket with relief. He liked it here. Being alone here wasn’t being lonely.
He’d written two whole pages in his notebook when he heard the sound.
Werfol knew all the sounds the mews could make, from the rustle of dried leaves tumbling over roof tiles to the sudden slither and whomph of a snow drift come loose in winter. An owl might hoot, alarming a foolish pigeon. In summer, tree frogs and crickets sang in the rafters. Always, pigeons cooing and snapping their wings. JoJo snoring.
This wasn’t a sound the mews should make. It was a huffing sound, faintly disapproving, as if someone stood behind and didn’t care for what they read over his shoulder, so Werfol closed his notebook and tied it shut with its string before turning around.
A pair of large eyes, better suited to a puppy, blinked.
A house toad?
“What are you doing here?” For this wasn’t Marrowdell, where house toads belonged and were helpful, when they weren’t judging others and interfering with plans. Was that why it was here? Werfol scowled. “Were you spying on me?”
Another blink, then soft warty sides expanded, and the toad let out a smaller, wistful huff of air.
“Oh. Sorry.” For when he wasn’t angry, Werfol was a kind-hearted and thoughtful person. “Are you lost?”
The round body tilted upward, as if with hope. A blink.
A lost house toad? Werfol put his notebook aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, to study the creature.
The toad shuffled back until it encountered the wall, eyes wider.
As if afraid—of him? Werfol straightened and showed both hands, palm up, as he would to calm Blazer. “It’s all right. You’re safe here,” the boy promised, though he was a little surprised, house toads being magical creatures, that one could be afraid of anything.
Maybe a dragon.
Nor, on somber second thou
ght, was he certain he could promise safety in the Westietas’ estate, matters being as they were. “This isn’t the best time to visit,” he admitted with a sigh. “Maybe you should go home.”
The toad eased forward again, then reached a clawed foot to touch Werfol’s boot.
“Are you telling me you don’t know how to get home?”
A blink.
“Well, you shouldn’t stay out here. It’ll be cold once the sun goes down. I know! You can spend the night in our room.” Gleefully imagining Semyn’s reaction, confronted with living proof of Marrowdell’s magic, Werfol dumped pencils and the apple he brought for himself from his satchel. He thrust the dark opening at the house toad. “In you get.”
With an alarmed HUFF the toad leapt to the farthest corner of the mews, squeezing under a nesting box. Once the dust and pigeon droppings settled, only one foot and eye showed. The eye blinked with what appeared reproach.
“Very well. Stay here if you wish. But you mustn’t eat Mother’s birds,” Werfol added quickly, unsure what house toads ate, but one couldn’t be too careful. “Promise.”
A long toe stretched out, then pulled back.
Trusting it meant “yes,” Werfol wrapped his notebook in its blanket and pushed it behind the feed sacks. “I have to go now or they’ll send someone—”
The door opened on someone, as if on cue. JoJo, who’d slept through the house toad’s appearance, startled awake with a cry of outrage, almost drowning out the quiet, “Master Westietas?”
Trusting the house toad to hide, Werfol grabbed the enraged gander as Dutton filled the open doorway, looming against the afternoon sun like a terrible scourge. If he’d had a black moustache—
Werfol shook free of his story. “It’s all right, JoJo,” he told the gander, clucking reassuringly. But it wasn’t. He glared at the guard. “I thought you weren’t going to spy on me.”
“I’m delivering a message from your mother,” Dutton replied.
A Dragon for William Page 5