The bed creaked as something huge sat on it. He froze, squeezing his eyes closed, because he wasn’t brave or a prince—the dragon would take him and he’d never see home again—
“Werfol. Lad. It’s me, Dutton. Werfol?”
Werfol. With the name, the safety of words in a story, of it all being a story, vanished with a sickening jolt. He opened his eyes, still able to see rainbow eyes and terrible teeth, feel the claw around him. It hadn’t been imagination, not all of it. William and Simon. Being a prince and brave, that was the story. He’d made it up to lie to himself. He was a big fat liar.
Momma’d known. He’d truedreamed. The dragon was real and after him.
Heart pounding, Werfol threw himself into Dutton’s arms. “Fight the dragon,” he cried. “You must!”
The guard pushed him gently back. “Aren’t dragons—” a pause, Dutton clearly finding himself in new territory “—friends of the family?”
Werfol hesitated. “Wisp is,” he replied slowly. If only Marrowdell’s protector had been in his dreams. He opened his mouth to tell the truth, to tell Dutton about William’s dragon—
Only to stop himself. How did truedreams work? His Momma had appeared in one, then been really there, on his bed.
Did that mean if he talked about the dragon, or thought hard about it, it would be really here too?
Had writing the words been how he’d kept it away?
“Werfol? About dragons—”
“Uncle Bannan was attacked,” he said quickly. “Baby dragons bit holes in his skin and ate his boots. Tir said that means not all dragons are friendly.”
“I see.” The guard stood then laid his sword on Werfol’s bed.
It was the largest sword he’d ever been this close to, longer than he was tall and too heavy to budge. The boy touched the blade, respectful of the well-maintained edges, then looked Dutton in the eyes. His turned gold. “Would you? Fight a dragon?”
“I would defend you, Werfol, against any and all foes.” Broad shoulders shrugged. “But a dragon? I don’t know if I can.”
The truth, but . . . Werfol frowned. “What do you mean?”
“From what I’ve been told, dragons are magical creatures. No telling if ordinary weapons could harm one, is there?” Dutton reclaimed his sword but, to Werfol’s disappointment, didn’t pull out his pistol. They weren’t to learn to shoot one for another year, according to Momma’s schedule.
They had, though. Tir had shown him and Semyn how to use his pistols when they fled north on the terrible road—after they abandoned Momma’s guards, Jonn and Aucoin—before the night they’d frozen almost to death and others had died—
Which he didn’t want to think about or remember, and wasn’t to talk about anyway, so Werfol frowned with all his might. “I don’t know what harms a dragon.” Maybe a cannon?
“Nor do I,” Dutton said, before he could suggest explosives. “This might be a good question for your new tutor.”
“Master Setac? He knows about Marrowdell?”
“No, and we’ll not tell him, all right?” His smile was a bit like Momma’s when she considered things. “We’d time to talk. Setac claimed to know more about magic than any Rhothan. He seemed eager for me to see him as someone of value to the household.”
“Because you were about to put his head in the fireplace,” Werfol said admiringly.
Dutton’s smile faded. “Yes.”
A child he might be, but Werfol knew enough to understand the now-sober expression on the guard’s face. Setac had almost lost his head, not because he’d ordered Dutton to take it, but because what had happened next had upset those around him.
“Master Setac didn’t hurt me,” he explained. “I saw something I didn’t expect when I did what he said. Looked deeper. He really does know about magic,” Werfol finished with a rush of hope. Hadn’t the tutor stared at the fireplace, as if he knew about the scary stones? Might he know about truedreams and dragons too? “Could you bring him here?”
“Master Setac is with the baroness.”
Meetings with Momma could take hours. Even days. Werfol sighed.
Mistaking the reason, Dutton frowned. “Do you need your mother, lad? Should I interrupt?”
You didn’t interrupt Momma in a meeting. Especially not one where she wanted to learn about someone. “Thank you, Dutton, that won’t be necessary. I can wait.” Werfol threw himself back on the pillow. “I’m to stay here and wait all day. All day. All. Day.”
Dutton didn’t quite smile. “To pass the time, you could tell me what you saw in Master Setac’s face. It could be significant.”
He could, Werfol supposed. Dutton was his guard and ready to fight the dragon. But—“You won’t tell anyone else?”
“Hearts of my Ancestors, I am sworn to your service, Master Werfol. If that is ever your command, I will obey.” Which sounded promising, but Dutton didn’t look happy as he spoke.
Momma taught to listen for hidden meanings in what people said; Werfol sensed one here. Dutton offered advice, as if he were an adult. Ordering a secret be kept was a serious matter. There could be—would be—consequences. If not for him, then for the guard.
It was a new thought, and strange, to realize Dutton, who was so much bigger and carried a sword he doubted their Poppa could lift, had good reason to worry what Werfol might order him to do.
“Then I won’t make it a command,” the boy said, choosing his words with care. “If I ask you to please keep something a secret just till I’m ready to share it, and I promise I will soon, would you do that?”
A grateful nod. “I would.”
Rather pleased with himself, Werfol nodded back. “When I looked at Master Setac’s face—looked deeper, I mean, with my gift—I saw the faces of other people. I think they were his parents and grandparents.” He decided against mentioning the angry face who’d appeared to see him back. “I was so surprised, I fell backward and hit my head on a chair. There were chairs,” he stated firmly.
“Heart’s Blood!”
“It’s all right,” Werfol assured him. “My head doesn’t hurt. Any more.”
“You could see the Blessed Ancestors?” the guard whispered, eyes wide. “Can you see mine?”
It seemed only fair. “I can try.” Werfol kicked off the covers and put his legs over the side of the bed, toes reaching for the floor. “You should sit down,” he suggested, not that it mattered to his gift, but Dutton appeared unsteady for some reason.
Once Dutton sat on Semyn’s bed, the young truthseer fixed his gaze on the guard, trying to see—what, under his skin? That was distracting, though he wouldn’t mind being able to see a person’s bones and maybe the brain inside.
“Anything?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. Werfol recalled Master’s Setac’s exhortation and pretended to hear those words: Look deeper . . .
. . . Dutton’s scruff of beard, brown eyes, and bent nose disappeared, replaced by a woman’s face, round and cheerful. Then a man’s, round too, with a great beard. Delighted with his success, Werfol kept looking. More faces, round a constant, though a couple had narrow chins.
Suddenly, a face whose green eyes looked back in seeming surprise.
Though he’d almost expected it, Werfol gulped and closed his eyes. He opened them, happy to see Dutton’s own face. “Does your father have a beard this long?” he asked, indicating a point midway down his own chest.
Dutton grinned from ear to ear. “Aie, Master Werfol. He’d a grand beard in his later years, Ancestors Dear and Departed. Could you tell—did he look happy?”
Werfol considered the question, then shook his head. “I can’t say. The faces were more like paintings than real people.” Except for the last, but that wasn’t a secret to give Dutton.
The guard appeared satisfied. “Well, it’s still a marvel, Werfol, and I thank you for sharing
it with me.”
“You won’t tell anyone, please? I promise I will,” he added, “but I’m not quite ready.”
“There was nothing to scare you? You’re sure?”
“I knew what to expect, this time.” Which wasn’t the whole truth, but wasn’t, Werfol assured himself, a lie.
Nor was asking, while Dutton continued to smile at thoughts of his father’s beard, for a favor being manipulative, another word Semyn used that made him mad. “I am a little hungry, Dutton.” With a pleading look.
“We can’t have that.” The guard glanced around the room, as if expecting provisions to appear.
Werfol settled back on the bed, head on the pillow, even pulling up the covers as though exhausted. “The cook might have something left from lunch,” he said wistfully. “A piece of bread would do.” Not a cheese bun. He’d never eat another if he could help it. “It’ll stop my head spinning around. That’s not your fault,” Werfol added kindly, and pulled Goosie from hiding to clutch under his chin.
Making it certain Dutton would feel it was, having encouraged him to use his gift. Sure enough, the guard puffed air into his cheeks, then let it out. Gruffly, “If you promise to stay in bed, I’ll slip down to the kitchen for a tray and be back quick as can be. Have I your word, Master Werfol?”
Werfol half closed his eyes. “I promise . . .” He held his breath until Dutton left the room, closing the door behind him, then said the rest “ . . . to be as quick as can be too.”
Tucking Goosie away, he launched himself from that bed fraught with dreams and dragons. Pulled on his boots and coat.
Then stopped. Their bedroom had a little fireplace, with a cheery little fire in it—guarded by a thick grate which proved inconvenient only until he’d brought a chisel from Poppa’s workshop to pry it open for experiments—
Their bedroom fireplace had song stones. There were two such stones behind him, right now.
Were they frozen people too?
Unwilling to look around and see, Werfol squared his shoulders. The stones could wait. He’d a mission to accomplish.
Unlocking the balcony doors, he stepped outside, where he did what a big person like Dutton couldn’t do, but a small person could. He squeezed through the gap in the railings and dropped onto a branch that bent obligingly almost to the ground.
He must write the words and lock away the dragon.
This time for good.
* * *
Emon kept a cot in the workshop, not for naps, but to think while resting his leg. He sat on it, Semyn beside him, going through the notebook page by page.
There was no name on it. In the latter pages, words were printed in haste, often misspelled. Werfol had a smooth cursive hand—both boys did—and excellent spelling, but he’d no doubt of the author. The words used, the anger—
“It’s Weed’s,” Semyn said, too quietly. “You know it is.”
“Yes.” What Emon knew was growing in bounds, thanks to “A Dragon for William.” The title had been neatly written, as were the earliest passages, and if he’d harbored any hope their youngest son had been spared worry or fear these past weeks? Been kept safe from the poisonous tongue of their late cook?
That was long gone. “Your brother hasn’t been happy, has he. Not since coming home.”
“Not since becoming a truthseer,” Semyn corrected.
“Yes. Of course. I wish I’d been here.” Instead of Mellynne, playing politics.
“It wouldn’t have mattered, Poppa. Weed only told me,” his son replied. “Momma didn’t know either and that’s why—Momma said what Werfol could see wasn’t true, and he was upset.”
More than upset, Emon guessed. It had taken Bannan and Jenn to discover Werfol’s secret. Now, how to help him live with it? He put his arm around Semyn and pressed a kiss to his head. “Thank you for keeping your brother safe.”
“I’ve tried.” Hazel eyes met his. Not those of a truthseer, but insightful. “Poppa, do you know where Weed got the idea of dragons? We haven’t any books with them. Not since Master Issan came.”
A tutor who hadn’t approved of the fantastic; a liability well gone, in Emon’s estimation, given the expanded state of their world.
Because dragons were real. The things existed outside of books, if not—thankfully—in their world. Lila truedreamed the beasts, amongst other inexplicable things, whenever she used her gift to watch over her brother in Marrowdell. It might, Emon thought ruefully, have been premature to promise Bannan she’d do so less often.
Both boys had met and befriended a dragon, an altogether remarkable creature that, according to Lila, treated Bannan like a cranky older uncle and could fly through the ground as easily as air. It made perfect sense that Werfol, forbidden to speak such an astonishing truth, would channel his memories and longings into a secret story.
Semyn waited patiently, expecting an answer. Deserving of one. Ancestors Cursed and Crushed, what could he say that wasn’t another betrayal?
He’d dealt with a similar situation before, albeit ignorant then of the cause. Channen’s Shadow District was like Marrowdell; those who visited it came away with different memories of the experience. He’d selected his closest guard and staff from those who remembered as he did, which helped Semyn not in the least.
Emon vowed they’d find a recourse. If magic caused it, surely there’d be a remedy, magical or other, to cure it.
Meanwhile, he’d Semyn’s earnest concern to ease. “Your brother has a vivid imagination,” he told the boy, wincing inside. “There’s no harm in that. He’ll grow out of it. Stories are harmless pastimes.”
“No, Poppa,” Semyn said quietly. “With apologies, this one isn’t harmless.” He took the notebook onto his lap, flipping to a particular page to point vigorously. “Here. You haven’t read this yet. It proves Weed’s become afraid.”
“You’ve said that,” Emon countered patiently. “But of what?”
“His dragon.”
* * *
Werfol closed the door to the mews, jamming the stool under the latch so it wouldn’t open from the outside. Not easily, anyway. Dutton would have to break the doorframe or hinges. He’d try talking first. Nice adults didn’t scare children. Or break things.
Not all adults were nice. The knowledge didn’t bother Werfol. Having grown up in a house full of politics and intrigue, he knew there were as many types of people as there were leaves in a tree. Most went about their business peacefully, without disturbing anyone else, preferring, as Momma said, not to know upsetting things.
He and Semyn were taught upsetting things. Most children weren’t, he supposed, but most children weren’t going to grow up to be responsible for the lives of other people. A city full. Maybe more. As Momma said, they needed to know what really not nice people might try to do, and to guard against them.
They’d seen it, he and Semyn and Tir. He tried to forget, but that only brought the images closer. He could smell hot blood on the snow. Feel the cold deep inside, slowing his heart—
“If I knew how Semyn forgot Marrowdell’s magic, JoJo,” he told the gander, the bird not really paying attention being bill-deep in a tray of feed, “I’d be able to forget the Northward Road and the bad men.”
As if summoned, the house toad came into view, climbing laboriously atop the feed bags. Werfol remained puzzled over where the creature had come from, other than most likely from Marrowdell, and quite possibly hidden amongst their few belongings.
The toad, having settled its round body and long limp feet comfortably, gazed at him with its huge eyes. As gazes went, this particular one made Werfol feel he’d put on his coat inside out. Which he hadn’t. “I’m going to take care of it,” he told the toad. “William’s dragon. I’ll write about it going away for good and then—then I’ll burn the story. In a fireplace.” There not being fire allowed in the mews, or the stable, for that matter.
The gaze didn’t waver. Something else, then.
Werfol ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. “You don’t make this easy, do you,” he complained.
A toe eased out from under the toad’s belly, then pulled back.
What had the house toad judging him? He’d been talking about memories to JoJo. About his brother.
Oh.
“Semyn can’t forget what happened on the Northward Road either,” Werfol said at last. “It’s worse for him than me. He can’t remember any of the fun things, only the scary ones.”
The thought put his brother’s behavior in a new light and made his own reprehensible. Which was another word Semyn liked to use, but had never, being kind, used it on him. Tir had told him to help his brother—
“I haven’t helped Semyn at all, have I,” he confessed sorrowfully, sitting on the bag beside the toad. “Haven’t tried. Embellishing. Being mad. Being mean. I’ve made things worse.”
The house toad blinked, wiping an eye with its foot.
“By my Ancestors, I’ll make it up to him,” Werfol vowed. It mustn’t be too late. “First, to save us all from William’s dragon.” It felt good, saying that out loud. Brave too, though if he were honest, Werfol knew he’d be much much braver if Semyn were here with him. He always was. How had he forgotten that?
“I wish—I’d best get writing.” He stuck his hand in the gap between the stack of bags and the timbered wall.
The blanket wrapping his notebook and pencils must have slipped down. “Your pardon,” he said to the house toad before climbing on top of the bags and over the creature. The toad squatted low and didn’t budge.
Half on his side, careful of the toad, Werfol pushed his hand down and down until his armpit met the bag and he couldn’t reach any further.
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