A Dragon for William

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The house toad squirmed under Werfol’s arm and he let it out. It dropped flat on the mossy leafy ground with a loud plop that couldn’t be comfortable, then lifted itself on all four legs to stare fiercely up at the squirrel.

  Which shouldn’t have cared about a toad, however large, but to Werfol’s delight, the rude squirrel spun around and disappeared up the tree.

  Buoyed by this success, Werfol began to hurry up the path. “We’re almost there,” he assured the toad, rather than stopping to pick it up again.

  And they were. He burst into sunshine and had to shield his eyes for a moment, for the reflection from the white song stones was blinding.

  If he hadn’t done so, Werfol would have run right into the man already on the path, also shielding his eyes. Which wasn’t fair, because he’d come here to be alone, so he said in a cross voice, “Who are you?”

  The stranger turned. He was round in every way. The backs of his hands were round, as were his fingers. His round body was topped by a round face with soft round red cheeks, but not the familiar round of Dutton’s family. This was more as if the man, for it was a man, had decided being round was an admirable thing, and had set about it. His clothing was quiet, but well made. Momma made sure they knew how to tell. Most importantly, it was Ansnan clothing.

  “Hello, child. I bear a token for your baron,” the man said, pulling out a round disk with a needle floating in oil. A compass.

  Werfol didn’t need to look deeper to know the man lied. Yes, it was a compass, but not like Poppa’s which they used to scribe circles on metal. This was the sort used by sailors and most certainly not what the Ansnan or any engineer would carry.

  He grew angry, confronted by another liar when he’d felt safe. “You should go to the party,” he said, careful to sound pleasant and helpful. He pointed down the path he’d just taken, relieved the house toad was nowhere in sight. “The baron is that way.”

  “I was told to wait in the ossuary.” The man turned and began walking up the path, dismissing what he thought a child.

  Werfol had no doubt someone was in the ossuary, told to wait there, most likely the Ansnan Poppa had invited. Which meant Round Man was here to stop him.

  And had to be stopped.

  He stepped off the path, seized a fist-sized stone, and let it fly at Round Man’s back as hard as he could.

  Then ran.

  * * *

  Broken bones. Burns. Scalds. No injury seared Emon with pain the way staying behind did now but there was no other choice. The cursed kruar were loose and they knew his wife and sons—and Dutton, from their encounter in Channen. If Herer had stayed, they’d accept him too, but no others. Only he could help.

  As he most definitely wasn’t to do, according to his lady wife. They’d gathered a houseful of people expecting deliverance from their problems.

  Unsaid, he didn’t know about magic. Something Emon planned to remedy, and quickly.

  He nodded to Milne, who came up at once. “Is everything all right, m’lord?”

  Nothing was, Emon thought, but pushed it aside. This was his part, to appear at ease and in control when his youngest son was endangered—as maybe they all were, from such a fantastical creature as a dragon. For an instant, he toyed grimly with the notion of giving that address to the crowd.

  Lila, he knew, would be disappointed in him. Emon rallied. “Chancellor. I’d appreciate your assistance. Our youngest son has gone into the woods. Some spat with his brother,” with a silent apology to Semyn. “It won’t delay my speech.”

  Losing the Ansnan would, the other reason Lila was out there. He needed his lost sheep found and quickly. The roast pig had been devoured, the cakes demolished, and only the port and sweets kept the party pleasant.

  “What can I do, m’lord?”

  Emon forced a careless shrug. “It’s time for the fire toss. That should keep our guests happy for a while, don’t you think?”

  The chancellor beamed. “It will at that, m’lord. And doubtless draw Master Werfol home again.” Kindly said, Milne being a father too.

  Revis and other staff opened the remaining doors to the terrace. At this signal, some guests collected blankets to wrap around their shoulders; others topped up their drinks. All headed outside.

  For this was the favorite part of the Westietas’ Midwinter Beholding for family and visitors alike. When Emon was young, the bonfires had received, in a spirit of renewal, old baskets and broken toys; when he was older, he’d come to suspect his parents of tidying the estate before heading back to the city. To prevent the raiding of the perfectly good household belongings for fuel by their over eager sons and their cousins, Lila had changed what was tossed. Stacks of bundled branches, gleaned over the year, stood waiting. Each was tied with a length of vine.

  They looked identical, but each held a secret. The excitement came once a bundle was tossed into a bonfire. Some contained powders that dramatically changed the color of the flames. Others would pop as dried corn hidden inside exploded. There were a few with whistles and several scented with spice. It was all good fun.

  Tonight, a distraction for others and excuse for him to be closer to the hunt for Werfol. Emon shrugged on the cloak a guard brought him and joined their guests.

  * * *

  Two things occurred as Werfol fled the Round Man.

  The first was he found himself running through song stones. They were everywhere, scattered over the slope like snowballs forgotten by last winter. Some piles were taller than Werfol but too far apart to offer a hiding place. In others, they were packed so tightly together they made a reasonable path.

  The second thing that happened?

  The turn came.

  Werfol saw it happen and knew what it was, because part of being a truthseer, the nicest part, was being able to see Marrowdell’s secret side. For when the last light of the day slipped across that valley, allowing through the light of the Verge, the road turned silver and what had seemed leaves became yling and danced. There were other creatures too, like the efflet who made sculptures out of snow. And Wisp, who didn’t have to show himself, but did, and Jenn Nalynn, made of pearl and glass . . .

  The turn came here, and Werfol hopped and jumped with dismay, because the song stones weren’t stones at all, but little people shaped like balls. They made faces at him but didn’t look mean. Some giggled and a few rolled together and chimed a harmony.

  Which would have been almost fun, but they clanged and struck and made dreadful minor chords from behind where Round Man followed, making Werfol run faster.

  He made it to the end of the stones and back to the forest, but that wasn’t better, that was worse—

  For what waited in the trees weren’t squirrels at all, but nephrit, who were horrible and black and had huge teeth they’d quite like to sink into him, and they gathered in growing numbers to wait for him to come close. Even as Werfol slowed, larger things, sinuous and low to the ground, began to slink forward. One pounced and tore apart a nephrit, but the others appeared more interested in him. The house toad appeared in front of him, backing slowly.

  Werfol took the advice and turned back to the stones.

  “Gotcha!” cried the Round Man, grabbing Werfol by the arm. He ignored the peril under the trees, or didn’t see it, too busy throwing Werfol to the ground.

  Twisting, Werfol glared up in despair and fury. “Momma will gut you!” he promised and the man laughed, raising a hammer.

  It was then the turn revealed to Werfol another, bigger secret.

  Light flowed over what wasn’t a pile of song stones, though it reflected hot and white.

  The white become emerald green. Eyes like whirling rainbows found Werfol.

  And the dragon rose from the mountain.

  Werfol and the Dragon

  William?

  “My name is Werfol, not William. What are you doing here
?”

  I’m always here, the dragon replied, and tilted its great head to aim an eye at him. Why are you?

  The Round Man seemed paralyzed, so Werfol clambered to his feet and snatched out the cook’s knot charm. He shoved it against his nose, sniffing with all his might.

  Cinnamon and sweaty feet. Cinnamon and sweaty feet.

  Nothing happened, except that he had to sneeze and the dragon’s regard appeared amused. Werfol reached down, feeling for the ground. His fingers found a song stone and it was not only soft and warm, it laughed at him before rolling away.

  “Is this real?” Could it be? Could the edge be behind their house?

  Are you?

  “Of course I am!” Werfol glowered at the dragon, who seemed content to squat on the ground and pose riddles. The house toad sidled close to the boy’s side, then behind him, as if to state there were some problems too big to bite.

  The little cousin is wise, Werfol real and here. Will you come home with me now?

  And suddenly, dreadfully, Werfol understood what that meant. “If your home is the Verge, I can’t go there. My Uncle Bannan said it was dangerous for him, and he’s grown and a soldier.” What he wouldn’t admit was how hard it was to keep looking deeper, but if he didn’t and couldn’t see the dragon anymore—

  That would be scarier, he knew, than any dragon he could see.

  The dragon brought its head closer, until its breath flowed hot over Werfol and the Round Man, who abruptly dropped to the ground, eyes rolling up. His hammer fell free and three song stones wrestled with one another to grab it with stubby fingers. The winner rolled away, swinging the hammer at any neighbors who didn’t move fast enough, producing a rather delightful melody.

  The scree thank you.

  Werfol blinked. “They’re welcome. I can bring more hammers,” he said to the mountainside.

  You are interesting, Werfol real and here.

  He felt a moment’s pride that quickly became worry. “No, I’m not. Not at all. Certainly not now.” Werfol hesitated. “Maybe one day, when I’m grown up, I will be.”

  “Later” is the word in our dreaming.

  Another of those phrases not to take lightly. “Later,” Werfol knew, could be taken for a promise. If he was certain of anything, it was that he shouldn’t promise anything to this dragon. “Will he be all right?”

  Not if I bite him. The mouth gaped and fangs glistened. Is that your wish?

  Where the Round Man had grabbed his arm throbbed and the parts of him that struck the ground hurt, and Werfol was mad enough to want to see the dragon bite. And a bit curious too.

  Still, nothing was broken and Momma, he thought all at once, would want a conversation with this Ansnan. “It is not my wish,” he said carefully. “I do have one, though.”

  The mouth closed, the head rising to cast a cold shadow over Werfol and the house toad. I know your wish. For me to stay away from your dreams.

  No, he’d been about to ask the dragon to stay away from Momma and hers, but something made Werfol hesitate before correcting the dragon—

  Then the turn passed . . . the scree again stones, the forest free of magical things with teeth.

  A white moth fluttered in front of Werfol’s nose, so he had to stare at it cross-eyed.

  I will only come if you call, Werfol, came a distant whisper, a feeling in his bones more than words.

  The moth flew into the trees. Shadows, night dark, began to stretch toward him from the forest and drape like black cloth down the slope. He looked for the house toad, but it was gone or hiding among the silent stones.

  Leaving Werfol alone with the unconscious Round Man.

  Thirteen

  “Are you all right?”

  Not the dragon’s voice, but Werfol, who’d had more than enough surprises for one evening and probably the rest of his life, rolled his eyes. “Ancestors Tormented and Tested,” he muttered under his breath before looking around. “Who is it now?” he grumbled.

  “My name is Araben Sethe, young master.” The woman bowed in the Rhothan style, fingers brushing delicately over a song stone, but everything else about her was Ansnan, from her tightly braided hair like a cap of rope to her long coat and high boots. Even her Rhothan had a lilt he’d never heard before, reminding Werfol all at once of Master Setac’s exhortation that people weren’t all the same, not matter their origin. “You are Master Werfol Westietas, second son of the household, are you not?”

  It was nice not to be called youngest for once. Werfol bowed back, wincing as he moved his shoulder. “I am. You’re the engineer, come to see my esteemed father.”

  “As this one is not.” Sethe looked down at Round Man, then delighted Werfol by neatly spitting on her fellow Ansnan. “Here is my identification.” She held out a compass.

  It was a proper compass. He took it, turning it over and over. Unlike the ones in the workshop, this had three knurled knobs and Werfol could see at once they would allow greater precision. “It’s a good one,” he told her, handing it back reluctantly. “We should go,” he said. “It’s going to be dark soon.”

  Sethe produced an intriguing small lantern from the bag at her hip. “What of him?”

  As if he were her equal and would know. Werfol was about to shrug—the Round Man clearly too heavy to carry and dangerous if he woke up while they tried—when a grim warm breeze tickled his ear. “We will eat his heart for you, Truthseer.” With the words, a head appeared from behind a tree. It looked like a horse, but the rest of it was missing until the body stepped around. Dauntless.

  Spirit followed behind. The two prowled closer, looking less and less like horses as they continued to eye the fallen Ansnan.

  “You can talk again?” Werfol mouthed the words, knowing they’d hear.

  “In the edge.” The breeze found his other ear. “If we choose.”

  “Master Westietas?” the Ansnan asked warily. “What are these?”

  Ansnor didn’t domesticate horses, preferring cattle, so Werfol didn’t think it a lie, exactly, to say, “War horses. Who aren’t going to eat him,” at which ears went flat but the kruar stopped their advance. “Not that we’re at war,” he finished hastily.

  Sethe nodded gravely. “That is why I’ve come, to work toward peace.”

  His eyes glowed amber, then gold as the truth in her words erased the lingering hurt of all the lies.

  More than that, the little truthseer realized he wasn’t afraid, not like he was with others, to let her see his gift, though Ansnan and the enemy. But she wasn’t an enemy, was she. Maybe some other Ansnans weren’t either. It was an immense thought; one he’d have to ponder later.

  “We need your help,” he told her.

  She’d seen, he knew, but Araben Sethe merely bowed again, as if a glowing-eyed boy was nothing extraordinary. “I offer it freely.”

  Well then. Werfol turned to Dauntless, who continued to drool and glare menacingly at the Round Man. “Watch the prisoner,” he ordered, making sure he looked to Spirit as well. “I’ll send Momma’s guards.”

  Unable to resist, he looked deeper, for an instant, thrilled to see their camouflage fall away to reveal the magnificent beasts they were, with glittering swords for manes, and armor-plated bodies. These two had permitted saddles be grown by magic on their backs, but in no other sense were they tame—or horses.

  Werfol bowed to them, gave the Round Man—who’d started to groan and was going to be very unhappy when he woke up—his fiercest scowl, then held out his hand. “This way. We’ll sneak in through the kitchen.” His stomach rumbled. “Our cook will have some leftovers.”

  For the first time, Araben Sethe smiled.

  * * *

  The bonfires had been spectacular, but those gathered to watch had too much else on their minds to cheer. There’d been some muted “oohs and ahhs”, along with a satisfying “eeek!” f
rom his aunt on his mother’s side when kernels of corn popped right in her lap. The aunt on his father’s side, Aunt Kinsel, had gathered them up and snacked, having a constitution as strong as her teeth.

  The rest? Kept looking to their baron for the cue to move inside and hear what he had to say, which would be more and possibly greater news, if he’d had a chance to talk with his missing guest.

  An arm slipped through his and he closed his eyes briefly to savor the relief. “You found him.”

  “Ancestors Blessed, our son found himself,” Lila replied, her voice full of pride. “And your engineer. They’re in the kitchen enjoying the last of the pork. Go,” she said, feeling his start. “I’ve saved something special to keep our other guests occupied.”

  Before he left, Emon took hold of his marvel of a wife and partner to kiss her soundly on the lips.

  As he walked away, Lila gave a signal. A guard stepped up to each of the bonfires and tossed in what wasn’t a bundle of sticks at all.

  The first fireworks lit the bottom of the clouds above, producing a chorus of astonished and slightly drunken cheers as Emon stepped inside.

  * * *

  “This is my brother Semyn,” Werfol said around a mouthful of juicy pork, feeling a certain lack of formality appropriate given Araben Sethe had her mouth full too. She was younger than he’d first thought. Younger than Momma. He’d a suspicion that had helped keep staff’s questions about an Ansnan in the kitchen at bay when they’d arrived.

  That, and Mistress Ioana’s spoon.

  Sethe swallowed quickly and rose from the bench to give a short dignified bow. “Your Grace. I am Araben Sethe, here at the baron’s invitation.”

  Semyn, being smart, didn’t bother to clarify he wouldn’t be officially the heir or deserve any fancy title until after his upcoming birthday. “Be most welcome.” He dropped onto the bench beside Werfol, sliding close so their shoulders met and he could search his face. “Are you—is everything—is it over?”